by Ray Bradbury
‘My God,’ echoed Shelley Capon.
‘That’s the parrot who met Papa, all right.’
‘That’s who it is.’
And I lifted the shawl.
I don’t know what I expected to find underneath the embroidery. Perhaps a miniature hunter in boots, bush jacket, and wide-brimmed hat. Perhaps a small, trim fisherman with a beard and turtleneck sweater perched there on a wooden slat. Something tiny, something literary, something human, something fantastic, but not really a parrot.
But that’s all there was.
And not a very handsome parrot, either. It looked as if it had been up all night for years; one of those disreputable birds that never preens its feathers or shines its beak. It was a kind of rusty green and black with a dull-amber snout and rings under its eyes as if it were a secret drinker. You might see it half flying, half hopping out of café-bars at three in the morning. It was the burn of the parrot world.
Shelley Capon read my mind. ‘The effect is better,’ he said, ‘with the shawl over the cage.’
I put the shawl back over the bars.
I was thinking very fast. Then I thought very slowly. I bent and whispered by the cage:
‘Norman Mailer.’
‘Couldn’t remember the alphabet,’ said the voice beneath the shawl.
‘Gertrude Stein,’ I said.
‘Suffered from undescended testicles,’ said the voice.
‘My God,’ I gasped.
I stepped back. I stared at the covered cage. I blinked at Shelley Capon.
‘Do you really know what you have here, Capon?’
‘A gold mine, dear Raimundo!’ he crowed.
‘A mint!’ I corrected.
‘Endless opportunities for blackmail!’
‘Causes for murder!’ I added.
‘Think!’ Shelley snorted into his drink. ‘Think what Mailer’s publishers alone would pay to shut this bird up!’
I spoke to the cage:
‘F. Scott Fitzgerald.’
Silence.
‘Try “Scottie,”’ said Shelley.
‘Ah,’ said the voice inside the cage. ‘Good left jab but couldn’t follow through. Nice contender, but—’
‘Faulkner,’ I said.
‘Batting average fair, strictly a singles hitter.’
‘Steinbeck!’
‘Finished last at end of season.’
‘Ezra Pound!’
‘Traded off to the minor leagues in 1932.’
‘I think…I need…one of those drinks.’ Someone put a drink in my hand. I gulped it and nodded. I shut my eyes and felt the world give one turn, then opened my eyes to look at Shelley Capon, the classic son of a bitch of all time.
‘There is something even more fantastic,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard only the first half.’
‘You’re lying,’ I said. ‘What could there be?’
He dimpled at me—in all the world, only Shelley Capon can dimple at you in a completely evil way. ‘It was like this,’ he said. ‘You remember that Papa had trouble actually getting his stuff down on paper in those last years while he lived here? Well, he’d planned another novel after Islands in the Stream, but somehow it just never seemed to get written.
‘Oh, he had it in his mind, all right—the story was there and lots of people heard him mention it—but he just couldn’t seem to write it. So he would go to the Cuba Libre and drink many drinks and have long conversations with the parrot. Raimundo, what Papa was telling El Córdoba all through those long drinking nights was the story of his last book. And, in the course of time, the bird has memorized it.’
‘His very last book!’ I said. ‘The final Hemingway novel of all time! Never written but recorded in the brain of a parrot! Holy Jesus!’
Shelley was nodding at me with the smile of a depraved cherub.
‘How much do you want for this bird?’
‘Dear, dear Raimundo,’ Shelley Capon stirred his drink with his pinkie. ‘What makes you think the creature is for sale?’
‘You sold your mother once, then stole her back and sold her again under another name. Come off it. Shelley. You’re onto something big.’ I brooded over the shawled cage. ‘How many telegrams have you sent out in the last four or five hours?’
‘Really! You horrify me!’
‘How many long-distance phone calls, reverse charges, have you made since breakfast?’
Shelley Capon mourned a great sigh and pulled a crumpled telegram duplicate from his velveteen pocket. I took it and read:
FRIENDS OF PAPA MEETING HAVANA TO REMINISCE OVER BIRD AND BOTTLE. WIRE BID OR BRING CHECKBOOKS AND OPEN MINDS. FIRST COME FIRST SERVED. ALL WHITE MEAT BUT CAVIAR PRICES. INTERNATIONAL PUBLICATION, BOOK, MAGA-ZINE, TV, FILM RIGHTS AVAILABLE. LOVE. SHELLEY YOU-KNOW-WHO.
My God again, I thought, and let the telegram fall to the floor as Shelley handed me a list of names the telegram had been sent to:
Time. Life. Newsweek. Scribner’s. Simon & Schuster. The New York Times. The Christian Science Monitor. The Times of London. Le Monde. Paris-Match. One of the Rockefellers. Some of the Kennedys. CBS. NBC. MGM. Warner Bros. 20th Century-Fox. And on and on and on. The list was as long as my deepening melancholy.
Shelley Capon tossed an armful of answering telegrams onto the table near the cage. I leafed through them quickly.
Everyone, but everyone, was in the air, right now. Jets were streaming in from all over the world. In another two hours, four, six at the most, Cuba would be swarming with agents, publishers, fools, and plain damn fools, plus counter-espionage kidnappers and blonde starlets who hoped to be in front-page photographs with the bird on their shoulders.
I figured I had maybe a good half hour left in which to do something, I didn’t know what.
Shelley nudged my arm. ‘Who sent you, dear boy? You are the very first, you know. Make a fine bid and you’re in free, maybe. I must consider other offers, of course. But it might get thick and nasty here. I begin to panic at what I’ve done. I may wish to sell cheap and flee. Because, well, think, there’s the problem of getting this bird out of the country, yes? And, simultaneously, Castro might declare the parrot a national monument or work of art, or, oh, hell, Raimundo, who did send you?’
‘Someone, but now no one,’ I said, brooding. ‘I came on behalf of someone else. I’ll go away on my own. From now on, anyway, it’s just me and the bird. I’ve read Papa all my life. Now I know I came just because I had to.’
‘My God, an altruist!’
‘Sorry to offend you, Shelley.’
The phone rang. Shelley got it. He chatted happily for a moment, told someone to wait downstairs, hung up, and cocked an eyebrow at me: ‘NBC is in the lobby. They want an hour’s taped interview with El Córdoba there. They’re talking six figures.’
My shoulders slumped. The phone rang. This time I picked it up, to my own surprise. Shelley cried out. But I said, ‘Hello. Yes?’
‘Señor,’ said a man’s voice. ‘There is a Señor Hobwell here from Time, he says, magazine.’ I could see the parrot’s face on next week’s cover, with six follow-up pages of text.
‘Tell him to wait.’ I hung up.
‘Newsweek?’ guessed Shelley.
‘The other one,’ I said.
‘The snow was fine up in the shadow of the hills,’ said the voice inside the cage under the shawl.
‘Shut up,’ I said quietly, wearily. ‘Oh, shut up, damn you.’
Shadows appeared in the doorway behind us. Shelley Capon’s friends were beginning to assemble and wander into the room. They gathered and I began to tremble and sweat.
For some reason. I began to rise to my feet. My body was going to do something, I didn’t know what. I watched my hands. Suddenly, the right hand reached out. It knocked the cage over, snapped the wire-frame door wide, and darted in to seize the parrot.
‘No!’
There was a great gasping roar, as if a single thunderous wave had come in on a shore. Everyone in the room seemed knocked in the stomac
h by my action. Everyone exhaled, took a step, began to yell, but by then I had the parrot out. I had it by the throat.
‘No! No!’ Shelley jumped at me. I kicked him in the shins. He sat down, screaming.
‘Don’t anyone move!’ I said and almost laughed, hearing myself use the old cliché. ‘You ever see a chicken killed? This parrot has a thin neck. One twist, the head comes off. Nobody move a hair.’ Nobody moved.
‘You son of a bitch,’ said Shelley Capon, on the floor.
For a moment, I thought they were all going to rush me. I saw myself beaten and chased along the beach, yelling, the cannibals ringing me in and eating me, Tennessee Williams style, shoes and all. I felt sorry for my skeleton, which would be found in the main Havana plaza at dawn tomorrow.
But they did not hit, pummel, or kill. As long as I had my fingers around the neck of the parrot who met Papa, I knew I could stand there forever.
I wanted with all my heart, soul, and guts to wring the bird’s neck and throw its disconnected carcass into those pale and gritty faces. I wanted to stop up the past and destroy Papa’s preserved memory forever, if it was going to be played with by feeble-minded children like these.
But I could not, for two reasons. One dead parrot would mean one dead duck: me. And I was weeping inside for Papa. I simply could not shut off his voice transcribed here, held in my hands, still alive, like an old Edison record. I could not kill.
If these ancient children had known that, they would have swarmed over me like locusts. But they didn’t know. And, I guess, it didn’t show in my face.
‘Stand back!’ I cried.
It was that beautiful last scene from The Phantom of the Opera where Lon Chaney, pursued through midnight Paris, turns on the mob, lifts his clenched fist as if it contained an explosive, and holds the mob at bay for one terrific instant. He laughs, opens his hand to show it empty, and then is driven to his death in the river…Only I had no intention of letting them see an empty hand. I kept it close around El Córdoba’s scrawny neck.
‘Clear a path to the door!’ They cleared a path.
‘Not a move, not a breath. If anyone so much as swoons, this bird is dead forever and no rights, no movies, no photos. Shelley, bring me the cage and the shawl.’
Shelley Capon edged over and brought me the cage and its cover. ‘Stand off!’ I yelled.
Everyone jumped back another foot.
‘Now, hear this,’ I said. ‘After I’ve got away and have hidden out, one by one each of you will be called to have his chance to meet Papa’s friend here again and cash in on the headlines.’
I was lying. I could hear the lie. I hoped they couldn’t. I spoke more quickly now, to cover the lie: ‘I’m going to start walking now. Look. See? I have the parrot by the neck. He’ll stay alive as long as you play “Simon says” my way. Here we go, now. One, two. One, two. Halfway to the door.’ I walked among them and they did not breathe. ‘One, two.’ I said, my heart beating in my mouth. ‘At the door. Steady. No sudden moves. Cage in one hand. Bird in the other—’
‘The lions ran along the beach on the yellow sand,’ said the parrot, his throat moving under my fingers.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Shelley, crouched there by the table. Tears began to pour down his face. Maybe it wasn’t all money. Maybe some of it was Papa for him, too. He put his hands out in a beckoning, come-back gesture to me, the parrot, the cage. ‘Oh. God, oh. God.’ He wept.
‘There was only the carcass of the great fish lying by the pier, its bones picked clean in the morning light,’ said the parrot.
‘Oh,’ said everyone softly.
I didn’t wait to see if any more of them were weeping. I stepped out. I shut the door. I ran for the elevator. By a miracle, it was there, the operator half asleep inside. No one tried to follow. I guess they knew it was no use.
On the way down, I put the parrot inside the cage and put the shawl marked MOTHER over the cage. And the elevator moved slowly down through the years. I thought of those years ahead and where I might hide the parrot and keep him warm against any weather and feed him properly and once a day go in and talk through the shawl, and nobody ever to see him, no papers, no magazines, no cameramen, no Shelley Capon, not even Antonio from the Cuba Libre. Days might go by or weeks and sudden fears might come over me that the parrot had gone dumb. Then, in the middle of the night I might wake and shuffle in and stand by his cage and say:
‘Italy, 1918…?’
And beneath the word MOTHER, an old voice would say: ‘The snow drifted off the edges of the mountain in a fine white dust that winter…’
‘Africa, 1932.’
‘We got the rifles out and oiled the rifles and they were blue and fine and lay in our hands and we waited in the tall grass and smiled—’
‘Cuba. The Gulf Stream.’
‘That fish came out of the water and jumped as high as the sun. Everything I had ever thought about a fish was in that fish. Everything I had ever thought about a single leap was in that leap. All of my life was there. It was a day of sun and water and being alive. I wanted to hold it all still in my hands. I didn’t want it to go away, ever. Yet there, as the fish fell and the waters moved over it white and then green, there it went…’
By that time, we were at the lobby level and the elevator doors opened and I stepped out with the cage labeled MOTHER and walked quickly across the lobby and out to a taxicab.
The trickiest business—and my greatest danger—remained. I knew that by the time I got to the airport, the guards and the Castro militia would have been alerted, I wouldn’t put it past Shelley Capon to tell them that a national treasure was getting away. He might even cut Castro in on some of the Book-of-the-Month Club revenue and the movie rights. I had to improvise a plan to get through customs.
I am a literary man, however, and the answer came to me quickly. I had the taxi stop long enough for me to buy some shoe polish. I began to apply the disguise to El Córdoba. I painted him black all over.
‘Listen,’ I said, bending down to whisper into the cage as we drove across Havana. ‘Nevermore.’
I repeated it several times to give him the idea. The sound would be new to him, because, I guessed, Papa would never have quoted a middleweight contender he had knocked out years ago. There was silence under the shawl while the word was recorded.
Then, at last, it came back to me. ‘Nevermore,’ in Papa’s old, familiar, tenor voice, ‘nevermore,’ it said.
The October Game
He put the gun back into the bureau drawer and shut the drawer.
No, not that way. Louise wouldn’t suffer that way. She would be dead and it would be over and she wouldn’t suffer. It was very important that this thing have, above all, duration. Duration through imagination. How to prolong the suffering? How, first of all, to bring it about? Well.
The man standing before the bedroom mirror carefully fitted his cuff links together. He paused long enough to hear the children run by swiftly on the street below, outside this warm two-story house; like so many gray mice the children, like so many leaves.
By the sound of the children you knew the calendar day. By their screams you knew what evening it was. You knew it was very late in the year, October. The last day of October, with white bone masks and cut pumpkins and the smell of dropped candle fat.
No. Things hadn’t been right for some time. October didn’t help any. If anything it made things worse. He adjusted his black bow tie. If this were spring, he nodded slowly, quietly, emotionlessly, at his image in the mirror, then there might be a chance. But tonight all the world was burning down into ruin. There was no green of spring, none of the freshness, none of the promise.
There was a soft running in the hall. ‘That’s Marion,’ he told himself. ‘My little one. All eight quiet years of her. Never a word. Just her luminous gray eyes and her wondering little mouth.’ His daughter had been in and out all evening, trying on various masks, asking him which was most terrifying, most horrible. They had both finally decide
d on the skeleton mask. It was ‘just awful!’ It would ‘scare the beans’ from people!
Again he caught the long look of thought and deliberation he gave himself in the mirror. He had never liked October. Ever since he first lay in the autumn leaves before his grandmother’s house many years ago and heard the wind and saw the empty trees. It had made him cry, without a reason. And a little of that sadness returned each year to him. It always went away with spring.
But, it was different tonight. There was a feeling of autumn coming to last a million years.
There would be no spring.
He had been crying quietly all evening. It did not show, not a vestige of it, on his face. It was all hidden somewhere and it wouldn’t stop.
A rich syrupy smell of candy filled the bustling house. Louise had laid out apples in new skins of caramel; there were vast bowls of punch freshmixed, stringed apples in each door, scooped, vented pumpkins peering triangularly from each cold window. There was a water tub in the center of the living room, waiting, with a sack of apples nearby, for dunking to begin. All that was needed was the catalyst, the inpouring of children, to start the apples bobbling, the stringed apples to penduluming in the crowded doors, the candy to vanish, the halls to echo with fright or delight, it was all the same.
Now the house was silent with preparation. And just a little more than that.
Louise had managed to be in every other room today save the room he was in. It was her very fine way of intimating. Oh look, Mich, see how busy I am! So busy that when you walk into a room I’m in there’s always something I need to do in another room! Just see how I dash about!
For a while he had played a little game with her, a nasty childish game. When she was in the kitchen, then he came to the kitchen saying, ‘I need a glass of water.’ After a moment, he standing, drinking water, she like a crystal witch over the caramel brew bubbling like a prehistoric mudpot on the stove, she said, ‘Oh, I must light the pumpkins!’ and she rushed to the living room to make the pumpkins smile with light. He came after her, smiling. ‘I must get my pipe.’ ‘Oh, the cider!’ she had cried, running to the dining room. ‘I’ll check the cider,’ he had said. But when he tried following she ran to the bathroom and locked the door.
