Chapter One

Where All Stories Start

The rain comes almost every day now, even if it's not cloudy. I can't help but feel as if all of this is my fault. Looking out of my bay window, the guilt and the shame of the past few months starts to set in. I had worked all my life to get one thing and suddenly like the burst of a balloon, it was gone, shredded into a million tiny pieces that I would never be able to pick up.

My name is Remy. The lights of Paris are beautiful, even in the rain. As the storm continues outside, a bigger one is gnawing inside of me. You know what? I'll just start where all stories start, at the beginning, maybe then this will make more sense.

It was last Christmas when I heard the news. Linguini and Colette were finally getting married. To tell you the truth I was indifferent, for Linguini and Colette had been together for the better of the year and for me at least, it was common law marriage at best. Still, Linguini felt that it was proper to announce his news to everyone and that's not just the kitchen staff of the restaurant, I mean Linguini announced his marriage to every person he saw on the street. It was pathetic.

Still I managed to look my best, slick my fur back, dress up in a tuxedo, the whole deal. Amazingly, Linguini made me the best man, I guess he had no other human friends who could do it, which would be sad, or I really was his closest friend no matter what. I like to say it was a little bit of both. As soon as the "May you kiss the bride" line passed I was relieved, for Linguini finally accomplished something that actually had merit. Not to say that he's completely useless, well okay, that's exactly what I'm saying, but to be fair, Linguini can't do anything, let alone cook a decent meal for four people to sit and enjoy.

My dad, Django, walked over to me after the main event, "Congratulations son" he said as he embraced me to the best of his ability, "you should be proud. The first rat to be best man, I'd never thought I'd live to see the day!" I smiled, partially confused as to why he was congratulating me when I all did was stand there and not move for two hours, but I decided to play along and with it. "Thanks Dad, it means a lot." Dad shook this off, "No it doesn't. One of these days you're goanna have to stop listening to your senile old man and just live your life." I wanted to say that I was already doing that and have been for the better part of seven months, for he was a strongly against my dream of being a chef ever since I first sparked an interest back at the country farm. But thanks to Brad Bird, you already know that story.

It was true, Dad was getting older and showing extreme signs of Alzheimer's disease, at times he didn't even recognize me. He took his medication and went to the doctor regularly but I think he knew that he wasn't going much longer. Sitting down, Dad looked sadder than usual, he had his usual bouts of depression now and again, so seeing him down in the dumps was normal, but this time it was worse, as if it wasn't just a normal every day thing, but on a real issue. "I just want to live to see my son find a wife" he said as he turned to me, "but it's not my call. If your time comes after I'm long gone, whoever you're with, you have my blessing."

It was good to know that Dad cared enough to give me that. The chances that he won't live to see that day were getting high which each passing minute, even if he didn't have Alzheimer's the chances would still be high, considering our family's history with high blood pressure, cancer and liver disease.

"I promise Dad" I answered, "I'll find someone before you...you know." Dad shook this off, "Don't base your happiness on my health Remy" he replied, "I want to see you married, but not as much as I want you to be happy. If you have to wait for that, by all means wait." He coughed violently and began to wheeze, finally sitting down at the nearest table. Once he was breathing normally, I began to relax because for the past six months I was ironically unable to comply with Dad's wishes because I was too busy taking care of him. It was two edged sword caught between my Dad and my own personal happiness and I was lunging it in my direction.

Linguini stood up and addressed the guests, the few who came, "First of all" he began, "I'd like to thank everyone for coming. Next to meeting Colette this has been the best day of my life." We all raised our wine glasses and followed suit with the toast. Linguini stepped up to the front of the room and continued with his speech, it was unusual for the groom to speak at his own wedding, but it was tradition in Gusteau family for generations and Linguini was all about tradition. "Let me start by saying that none of this would've been possible without the gifts and talents of" I'm skipping this part, I'm pretty sure you know where this is going. I slowly made my way to the podium. It was then that I realized one very important detail about me, I'm a rat.

I rolled my eyes and turned towards Linguini, as a joke I began making up random sign language that meant absolutely nothing, to the humans it was cute, to the rats present, it was hilarious. When I finally did stop I turned towards the audience and spoke, "And that's what I have to say about Linguini" I turned towards the man of the hour and continued, "but in all seriousness Linguini, you're one of the best guys I ever knew, the only human I've met who hasn't tried to kill me and when the day finally does come for me to die, I'm going to look back on everything that we've experienced and I'm going to say 'I lived a good life.' I turned towards the audience and specifically the rats, "It's not because I'm the best chef in Paris or because my family is amazing and has supported me every step of the way, although that is a big part of that." I made my way back to Linguini, "I will have lived a good life because I met someone like you Linguini; you showed me that humans aren't that bad."

To the humans present, I had spoken complete gibberish, but to the rats, I had just sung pure poetry. I stepped off Linguini's hand and returned to my seat. Dad and I exchanged glances and for the first time in a long while, Dad smiled at me, "You meant every word of that didn't you?" he asked. I nodded in silent agreement, to which Dad's smile only increased as he took another sip of wine down his throat.

I don't know which was worse, the wedding, the reception or the after party that followed. By the end of that night, I had made two different speeches in honor of the bride and groom, popped seven champagne corks and made twenty four different varieties of cheese, each of them taking two hours to make. Why twenty four? Because Linguini thought it would be a good idea for everyone to send home four pounds of the stuff for no reason at all then just to get rid of food. So it's safe to say that by the end of that night, I was exhausted and ready not to move until forever.

But duty calls. The next morning I was up and out of bed by five, showered and shaved by six and down at the restaurant just in time for opening at seven. As I was preparing for the usual morning rush alone for what would've been the fifth time that week, Emile came into the kitchen. "Remy" he said as he ran towards me, very out of breath. "What is it Emile?" I asked half annoyed that he was bothering me at one of the busiest times of the day, something that I specifically told him not to do. "This better be important?" I continued, "Well what classifies as important?" Emile asked. I slapped my face with my paw in complete disbelief, "Is someone dead, sick or in mortal danger?" I yelled, getting more annoyed as I noticed costumers beginning to walk through the front door.

Emile thought about his answer for a long time, as if the issue was either too important that he had to remember every detail or exactly the opposite, finally he spoke. "Yes" he answered. I stared at him and pressed harder, "Which one- Dead, sick or mortal danger?" Emile hesitated to answer, "Dead, well, dying, I'd say more like sick." I immediately feared the worst and put up a sign on the door saying that I was unable, turning back towards Emile I asked the million dollar question. "Who is it?"

Dad lay on his death bed in the small apartment across the restaurant. He looked worse than before, his fur was almost completely white, his teeth were yellow to the core, but the thing that really got me were his eyes. His eyes were the saddest eyes I have ever seen, it was as if life had finally caught up to him, as if the weight of the world, which he had tried so hard to carry for other's sake had finally and violently broke him down to nothing. It was painful.

He turned to me, his face full of confusion, "Who are you?" he asked as he stretched out his hand towards me and spoke again, this time louder "Who are you? What are you doing here?" Tears formed in my eyes, the disease had taken over- he had forgotten who I was entirely."I'm your son" I answered, trying and obviously failing to hold back my silent barrage of tears as they streamed down my face and landed softly on the floor, "Remy." Dad's face then got angry, for a moment I thought he recognized me, but then he spoke again, "Son? I don't have a son!" Emile cast his down and softly began to whisper, "I'm Emile, your son?" Dad turned towards Emile, "I don't have a son! I don't have a son!" Dad's breathing became slower, his voice got softer as a result. He kept repeating this same phrase over and over, like a never ending mantra.

Dad clutched his chest, his heart giving out from the strain of keeping him alive, at the same time his brain, which was once full of knowledge and wisdom of a thousand mice and men put together, shutdown. The only thing I heard was Dad's final words, his mantra for what ironically he considered to possess for most of his life, "I don't have a son...I don't have a son." Emile buried his face in his hands and cried for what seemed like forever. I could only stare in shock and disbelief. My father, my Dad, the person who had raised me and made me who I am today, was dead. "I promised you I would find someone before you left" I whispered as I walked towards the door, "would you settle for afterwards Dad?" Saying nothing more, I slowly made my way to back to the restaurant. The rest of that day was spent almost entirely by myself in the kitchen. I didn't go out and deliver the food like I usually did; I let the orderlies take care of that.

Soon I found myself making dishes that no one had ordered, but I found that I really didn't care. I was lost in myself. By the end of the day, the entire counter was full of dishes that were ready to eat, all of our ingredients were exhausted for the entire month and my hands were bleeding from the amount of work I had done, but I didn't care, for I had begun to grieve.