Richard Zimler: Hunting Midnight

“And I’ll dip you up to your nose in wax if you make a mess,” she warned me.

On my way out the door, I asked where they had bought the tile of the triton. Graça told me it had been made by their friend, Senhor Gilberto the potter.

Graça looked at Luna, who twisted her lips into a frown. How this expression was interpreted as permission, I do not know, but Graça patted my head and said, “It’s yours, then.”

“Mine?”

She kissed me on the brow and placed the tile gingerly onto my tray. “Always surround yourself with beautiful things, John, and all will be well.”

I balanced my tray in one hand, eased open the front door to our house, and tiptoed inside. Mother was standing by the mirror, brushing her chestnut-brown tresses in a luxurious curtain over her face, as she did every morning. She was wearing her blue day dress, stitched tight just under the bust and falling straight to the floor, hiding her slim waist. Her feet were bare. For a single moment, I believed I still had a chance to slip by her. If I exercised caution, I could retrace my steps and vanish past her upstairs. But on parting her hair in front, she caught a startled glimpse of me and my courage failed.

“Good morning, John,” she said. This was the en garde before our battle.

“I was just outside for a moment, confirming we shall have sun.”

She eyed my tray suspiciously.

“I’ve also been with the Olive Tree Sisters,” I rushed to confess. “They invited me for tea and let me borrow some things.”

“Luna and Graça had you for tea at seven o’clock in the morning?” she asked skeptically. “John, you must either think me insane or unconcerned for your welfare. And you are testing my patience yet again. Now, would you mind telling me what it is you are carrying?”

“Paints. Daniel and I shall be painting some things.”

“What things?”

“Some masks he’s made,” I lied.

“Indeed.” She came to me and snatched up one of the jars. Peering inside, she sniffed its contents. Satisfied that I was telling the truth, she said, “Now, listen to me: You are not to eat any of this. I’m quite sure it’s poisonous.”

I gave her a furious look, because imbibing such a paste would never have crossed my mind.

“Promise me,” she said, wagging her finger.

“Mother, do you think I am a complete and utter idiot?”

To which she replied, without batting an eyelash, “No, of course not, dear, far from it. We all know only too well how intelligent you are. But I must say that you imitate many things brilliantly, and if you can bear a small criticism, you even do an excellent imitation of an idiot at times.”

That afternoon, mother and I bid farewell to my father at our door, as he was journeying upriver for one of his two-week sojourns to survey lands for the Douro Wine Company. Trying to cheer me up, he said, “Soon, son, we shall have our own vineyard upriver and I shall not need to part from you.”

Leaning down to whisper in my ear, he added that he had spoken again to Mama about getting a dog and that she was softening. Furthermore, his absence would no doubt play on her emotions and render her butter to our wishes. I embraced him very hard. I would have liked to press my little self fully inside him.

Mama and I waved good-bye as he strode down the street, her hand trembling around mine. She brushed away her tears and whispered something to herself that surprised and chilled me: “This life is killing me.”

Back in 1800, the bird market was not so well established as it is today: It consisted of only a single row of wooden stalls pitched haphazardly, eleven in total on the Tuesday of my visit with Daniel. Each stall held between ten and thirty cages, some on the ground, others on tables. The cages were made of wicker, cane, rusted iron, wire mesh, and in one case — for a golden pheasant — glass and gilding. The number of birds per cage proceeded from a low of one, in the case of most hawks, egrets, crows, and herons, to a high of fifteen or more for the wrens, wagtails, and other small birdies. That day, I counted seventeen European goldfinches trapped in a single tunnel of despair fully as long as my arm but no taller and deeper than the width of a man’s hand.

Even worse, some birds were kept in direct sunlight with little or no water. A slender parrot with emerald green feathers had plainly been incarcerated in that condition for too long and was lying limp at the bottom of its cage, flies buzzing noisily at its eyes.

I suppose it was merciful that these creatures could not understand the speculations of marketgoers as to how certain red, rose, and yellow feathers would look when stitched to a hat.

Inside the largest of the stalls, a woodpecker was lying belly-up at the bottom of a wire-mesh cage, his scarlet-capped head tilted far to the side, squawking in helplessness. One wing was splayed; likely he had broken it trying to fly. I squatted next to him, and Daniel joined me.

The owner, a bald man with sallow skin and rotting teeth, was calling out to onlookers, “See these beauties of mine! Handsomest birds in Portugal. Step up and get a good look at them!”

When he paused for a drink from his mug, I pleaded with him to let me free the woodpecker — or allow me to take him to someone who cared for animals.

He burst out laughing, spraying wine on me. “That one’s ready for the compost heap, son.”

“You’re the one who belongs in compost, you bastard!” Daniel shouted.

The man grabbed his broom and tried to whack Daniel on the head, but the lad jumped out of his range and cursed him again.

While they traded insults, the woodpecker began to choke, and a slender pinkish worm, like a string, slipped out of his mouth. I jumped back, trampling a lady’s foot. She screeched that I was a no-good filthy urchin and described me in a whisper to her lady friend as a worthless mutt. I didn’t know why she used this particular expression, but her words clung tight as a tick to me even then. As a child I was not aware of just how many residents of our small city knew that my father was a foreigner.

That worm in the woodpecker ’ s throat is what ’ s made him ill, I reasoned, pushing my face right up to the cage, wishing to be able to extract the hideous thing.

The proprietor had given up on trying to knock Daniel on the head and was explaining the advantages of thrushes over larks to an old man with smallpox scars on his cheeks. I pulled Daniel’s sleeve to make him look closer at the bird and said, “See what was inside him?”

While we stared through the mesh, the worm seemed to turn solid — to become a splinter. All this time I had failed to take note of the creature’s hesitant breathing, but when it ceased, I remarked its absence easily enough. The woodpecker’s eyes remained open but were no longer staring into our world. I called to him, then banged on the cage.

“Hey, stop that now!” the proprietor ordered.

Daniel began exhorting me to leave. Just then I realized that the worm was, in truth, the poor bird’s tongue.

Before we left, Daniel asked again if we could have it, now that it was dead. The proprietor told him that if we would leave and never return, Daniel could open the latch and take him.

As Daniel lifted the woodpecker out, he said in his most proper voice, “I hope I may count on your presence here on St. John’s Eve. I’ll have silver then for buying a healthy bird.”

“I’ll be here, though I doubt the likes of you will ever save enough coins for one of my beauties. Now, go away!”

We placed the woodpecker in a small sack that we begged at a cobbler’s stall. I wished to bury the unfortunate creature, but Daniel said we’d need him to do our painting properly. To my series of ensuing questions, all he’d say was “Hush up, John, I need to think.”