And I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
The forces of motherhood have had to set up pro tem headquarters in an inferior building across the street from the Academy now that the Academy has been taken over by the mothers-to-be. Even though three vice presidents of motherhood and several important scientists and officials of motherhood have been captured, there are plenty of members of the Academy still at large. It is these who are now gathered across the street to consider their alternatives. They are wondering if they should, perhaps, abandon motherhood altogether ... at least the sort of motherhood that has anything to do with females. How unfortunate that they have, until now, been dependent on women for filling their own ranks. But science must triumph. They are saying, if a hill is in our way as we build a road, nowadays we have only to remove it. Mountains even. If great valleys need to be crossed, we build equally great bridges. Why not simply sidestep the female? We've already been doing this, to a lesser extent, for generations. And it worked—as far as it went. We've made invisible those who were less like us than they might be. We will build a higher bridge. To ignore them will be their greatest defeat. It always has been.
But one of the members says they should, on the contrary, confront the females. How would they know they were brave if they didn't face the women head on? Another of the members wonders if the females—especially those who are leaders and winners—shouldn't be allowed to become honorary men, with all the rights and privileges that that entails.
One has secretly gone down into the basement to make pipe bombs.
Now the city seems one big parade, with everyone converging on Fifty-seventh Street. There is music of all sorts: whistling, beeping, and tootling. Even the night creatures have come up into the day to see what's going on and to contribute their chirps, hoots, and loon-laughter. They wear dark glasses and their hats are pulled low over their eyes, but still they walk proudly with the others.
Suddenly, high above it all, a coloratura cadenza can be heard, clearly a trained voice, and only a little higher than a normal human voice could go. The “Bell Song” from Lakmé, and here comes a group of opera singers on a float pulled by two huge Clydesdale mares. Each mare wears a wide-brimmed blue floppy hat and a flowered shawl. Their tails are neatly braided, as are their manes. They pull willingly. One can see they are happy to be able to make this contribution to females, to the opera, and to the circus. It is now, just at the end of the aria, that Pooch hears “Pa.” Tentative. Questioning. “Pa?” She does not dare answer. “Pa?” Where is this “pa” coming from? As yet Pooch can see nothing of the float and its occupants. Besides, can she still sing? Does she dare to try?
"Pa!” This time it is prolonged, insistent, demanding. “Paaaaa!"
Then she sees the float, and the feathered crest looping up above the others, and she feels a tingle of anticipation. Silly, she thinks, one chicken attracted to another. She promises herself she will not be again misled as she was by the Escamillo, falling in love with an imaginary person ... with a role. No, not again in love with a costume.
Then the creature leaps off the float, pa-ing vigorously, and comes straight to her. The crowd opens up for him. And such a tall, bright thing he is! “Pa.” She sings it tentatively, not knowing what will happen, but it comes out so full-throated that everyone turns to stare at her. “Pa,” again. And again. And he, his pale eyes.... They are the same pale eyes—the very ones! Yes, and the Escamillo voice. She'd recognize it anywhere. They laugh and begin to sing the duet as it should be sung. Even as they are singing, many hands pull them up onto the wagon full of opera singers. Here she is at last, she and the baby, among them. Then she sees, just beyond, a fat and familiar mustachioed face ... a too-familiar face, and he is calling out to her, “Wait, wait. You are she whom I seek.” She turns away. Of course he doesn't recognize her in this costume. No one does. Probably not even the pale young man, though she is hoping that he does, now, as he holds her elbow and looks into her eyes.
"I, also, was seeking you,” the young man says. “Yes, it really is you, and I see that you know me. And I knew you weren't that old woman back then when I went for another balloon. First I recognized the baby, but then I could see that it was you by your eyes. I've remembered your eyes ever since the stage door ... your golden-brown eyes. I'll always know who you are from them."
Pooch is human enough by now to blush at his words. The transparent down on her cheeks (hardly as much as on the baby's head) cannot hide it. She also cannot hide her smile of pleasure.
But now the little orchestra on the float has begun the familiar strains, and the young man takes her hand. “Do you know this aria?"
Of course she does; it's Carmen's “bird” song: “Love, like a rebellious bird.” How apropos! To the costume, at least. And he is leading her to the front of the platform. “Come, sing a solo."
Here they are at Fifty-seventh Street. And there, right in front of the Academy of Motherhood building, things have been arranged as though for a circus, or perhaps for an extraordinarily acrobatic opera. High wires have been stretched, and trapezes and huge nets guyed from buildings and street lights. A ringmaster, in top hat and white riding breeches, stands beside a similarly attired dwarf. Both are full-breasted women. Several clowns of both sexes are already doing skits to keep the crowd happy before the real show begins.
But that particular Academy member who had gone into the basement for his nefarious purpose has come up with a large shopping bag. He makes his way through the crowd and crosses the street with his heavy load. He has never been the most reasonable of the members, though he was one of those who had always been particularly nice to his mother.