So, at some point or another, I left the aviary. I had made up my mind to return to the library and get to the bottom of the matter. If it all turned out to be a joke, then fine. At least I would know for sure.
Now, we'll have to go a little further back - - Charlie Parker's grandfather's father's master's grandson - - purveying the beaches of Provence circa 1900 - - admiring the women with their bare arms and legs - - laying on their bellies by the shore like so many recently mutated polyps, wriggling their way onto land.
"Je suis encore tres enuie," they coo, and sigh in unison, turning their heads to the side, stretching out their fine white necks and adjusting their extremely fashionable hats.
Allan smirks with gentlemanly moderation, and coughs into his handkerchief in the same manner. He makes a remark on the climate to his associate, Mr. Oswald, who gives a subtle nod of agreement.
"Very excellent, indeed. An entirely different air altogether from Alabama."
Well, straight to the cafe - - The Pestiferous Fog - - and Allan sits staring out the window at a tree full of sparrows, or nuthatches, or starlings, while Mr. Oswald bares down with all possible delicacy on a platter of two dozen oysters, tilting his head back and encouraging them down his throat.
"Hmpf," Mr. Oswald clears his pipes, wipes his mouth with the napkin tucked into his collar, "Well then. How do you feel? Better I hope."
Allan gives a small nod, not averting his gaze from the window.
Mr. Oswald smiles and takes up the last oyster in the air of a joyous ritual offering, closing his eyes and falling back into his seat; blushing like a baby after feeding.
"So, you're taking the plunge? No chance of turning you around - - making this whole thing into a vacation, rather than an exile?"
Allan does not reply at first but stares at the birds as they shake themselves from the tree, rising like a cloud of aggravated dust into the greying sky, which recieves and disperses them somewhere beyond his vision.
"No, Richard, I don't think so," Allan sighs, and smiles politely, turning his face towards his companion. "It's out of my control now."
It's possible I should I have called this "A Wealthy Alabama Landowner Travels to Provence to Convert To Hasidism" or, "Two Feather'd Guests From Alabama, Two Together" - - but that might have given too much away. However, now I'm faced with the awkward situation of getting both Allan and Mr. Oswald to the mysterious blue brick house on the outskirts of the town in order to make the startling revelation ("If this is your choice Allan, so be it. I'm back to Alabama to keep your secret."), while at the same time making sure I leave enough space to get back to our neanderthal friend. So in the interest of everyone involved, I'll omit most of the story in order to get at the meat of the issue.
There, by the stump of one of the first felled trees; the boney headed neanderthal - - pacing back and forth, clumsily cradling his head, his body swinging awkwardly under its weight - - in all his hideous nudity, followed by all his noxious odours, leaving a trail of all his greasy liqueurs. He sits down on a large stone, hiding his not-yet-perfect face in his malformed arms.
What are you crying about? Come on, for Godsakes. You're a homo erectus - - be erect! Hold your head up high! It's really very early on yet. Things are bound get a little better. We're depending on you, pri-mordial man - - really and truly. Don't give it up!
Oh, you're nothing but a child.
And so he stands up (in all his hideous nudity, with all his noxious odours), and looks down at the stone on which he was sitting. He kneels down and lays his ugly hands around it, heaving it into the air above his head.
I find it difficult to describe what happens next - - it's really very hard. It's a stain on human history - - it really is.
But I'll have to press on - - you demand it of me, I know. You'll want to know, that as this pitiable creature bludgeoned himself to death with this stone - -that his poor, lamentable, child-like neanderthal soul, imperfect though it may be, ascended to the tree of souls, up to the inverted root of divinity and then back through the leaves of the divine manifestation, floating like a single sparrow (like from the Gospel) among the limbs and twigs of the sacred foilage, where it was fed by the infinite worm, plucked from the infinite bounty of the eternal soil by the boundless beak of the very first motherbird - - the celestial bride whose song is the endless repitition of the very first words (in the Hebrew, in the Aramaic, in the King James English): "In the beggining, created God - - Bereshith bara Elohim", in an endless divine melody with no resolution; with naked simplicity and yet containing boundless contrapuntal complexity - - a thousand million voiced fugue.
The primordial man has destroyed his head! And now the whole structure falls flat like an empty sack. But, flowing over our heads, he manifests himself continually - - at one point conversing with Rossini (who eventually became a stone) - - most often coming back as some doomed suicide - - but most importantly as Oppenheimer, and as Einstein simultaneously. Which brings us back to the original story.
Qual misfatto! qual eccesso!
To Be Continued...
