The most important thing is the cage. Two frights in yellow inside it, two fears at my mercy to add to the ones I already carry within. They breathe with me. They see, listen, I’m certain they listen because when I put on a record, they stretch their necks, alert.
In the morning, you have to uncover them quickly, clean their cage, change their water, replace their earthly nourishment. Then the pet grass, the grass that like watercress must be stored in a big bowl of water, if not, it dries out; the birdseed, the minute bowls, the rounded and splinterless stick they use as a perch to stand on, the banana or the apple, whatever I have on hand. No one’s ever given me a stick I can rest my fears on.
They shiver their yellow trembling. They move their little heads this way and that. Standing in front of them I must be an immense mass blocking the sun, an opaque gelatin, a semolina flan to feed a giant, someone who occupies a disproportionate amount of space that doesn’t belong to her. They make me hate my big round terrorizing bear-like shadow.
The cage is what’s heavy. They’re so light. They have eyes of nothing, a minuscule birdseed that stands out, a micron of black matter. And, nevertheless, they throw looks like darts. I shouldn’t let them intimidate me. They’re perceptive. They turn their heads before I can turn my greasy human head, my white face that hangs on a butcher’s shop hook since they arrived. I try not to think about them. Yesterday they weren’t part of my daily comings and goings. Today I could pretend that I’m still free, but the cage is there.
The first night, I covered the cage with a towel. I hung it next to the enormous wooden seagull that had to be dusted because we all forget to make it fly.
The cat lies in wait, he tenses his body, stretches his neck. His body stays rigid like a wire all day; his nature frustrated to the tip of each of his black hairs. I run him off. He returns. I run him off again. He doesn’t understand. I no longer have patience for those who don’t understand.
The second night, I look for another spot. I pick my bathroom. It’s safer. It has a good door. At sundown, I cover them and they huddle together in a ball of feathers. When it gets dark, I’m the one that can’t go into the bathroom because if I turn on the light, I’ll interrupt their sleep. What must they think about the immense mass that brushes her teeth to the thunder of pipes? What must they think about the roar of water from the last flush of the toilet? What must they think about the pajamas I’ve been wearing for three days, ridiculously pink and oversized, with blue patches? To them, I must look like the glittery felt dashboard of a Mexican taxi.
And now, what do I do? Dear God, it’s awful being man, or a woman, human, whatever, occupying so much space. A thousand times more than the birds do. I sleep uneasy. Every once in a while I get up and I slide my hand through a crack beneath the towel to make sure they’re still in there, clumped together in a feathery ball, their heads nestled inside their shoulders. Unlike me, they sleep embraced, like lovers.
The next morning, I take them back out to the terrace, to the sun, the air, to the possible visit of other birds. They don’t sing. They emit a few chirps, very thin, weak, sad. They don’t like the house.
At noon, my daughter notices, “One got away.”
“How?”
“Through the bars in the door.”
“I told you to put the door against the wall.”
“Doors aren’t supposed to face the wall, doors open to the street.”
“You were supposed to hang the cage with the door facing the wall.”
“Oh, Mother, doors are to be opened. Anyway, how am I supposed to take care of them? I’ve got to be able to stick my hand in to change their water, give them their birdseed,” she replies. Her voice is a thundering laugh.
“It’s gone,” I declare with sadness.
“Well, it’s smarter than the one who stayed.”
When I tell her, “Leaving is like dying a little,” she thinks I’m being corny. Dying isn’t a tragedy to her because she’s young.
“Oh, Mother, get with it.”
I learn something from her. I don’t know what, but something. Then in complete defeat I add, “These birds are defenseless. They’re used to someone putting food in their little beaks.” I glance across the garden. I don’t want to find it on the ground. “Where could it have flown to?” I ask, devastated. Then I add glumly, “Life doesn’t make sense.”
“Of course it does,” my daughter trumpets. “It’s the only thing that does make sense.”
“How?”
“It makes sense all by itself.”
When it gets dark, I bring the canary that didn’t escape inside. Against my will, I feel certain contempt for him. Slow, clumsy, he missed his chance. I cover the cage.
The next day, I take him out into the light in this new ritual imposed by my daughter. “It’s your bird.” I try to whistle at him, but I can’t. I call him “pretty” as I hang the cage on the nail, suspended slightly in the air so that the prisoner thinks he’s flying. I return to my chores, the limp stockings on the chair, yesterday’s slip, the book I’ll never read, the eyeglasses that are going to get scratched if I don’t put them away. God, an unmade bed is so ugly. What did I awake to? Suddenly, I hear a lively chirp, carefree, a few cascading trills. His singing interrupts the morning sluggishness. He warbles. His sharp arpeggios fill the terrace, Conchita Square. What heavenly music his trills! Mozart! Other birds respond to his harmonies. At least that’s what I think. It’s the first time he has sung since he arrived. Is it for his darker-feathered companion that he fills the emptiness with so much laughter? I try not to feel. How does something so small and barely yellow manage to cause such a ruckus in a tree? When I was a little girl and would eat pumpkin seeds, my mother would say, “An orange tree is going to grow inside you.” Or an apple tree. The idea thrilled me. Now it’s the canary that causes a tree to grow inside me. I echo. I’m made of wood. His singing has unleashed something. Mine is a sad house, stuck in time, a house full of monotonous rituals, tidy. It lets loose now. “I’m alive,” it says to me. “Look at me, I’m alive.”
The canary’s singing causes a tiny ship to sail from my branches. The wind that drives it is pure energy. Time flows at last. I dive in. I make the bed, open my arms, kneel, tidy up, bend over, go, come. I can’t stop now. His singing inspires me to be something else. I go out to the terrace to see if he needs anything. I walk on tiptoes, not wanting to jeopardize this newfound happiness for anything in the world. So much eagerness!
I greet him, “handsome, handsome,” “thank you, thank you,” “handsome, handsome,” “thank you, thank you.”
I laugh alone. I realize that I haven’t laughed in months. Silence sings inside these walls. I unveil a house that sings. The canary is my heart. He trembles yellow. The light of the highest heaven whistles in his tiny breast.