Free Hunting Midnight by Richard Zimler Page B

a parent and child can. But the outcome was favorable – Grandmother Rosa had fled. In fact, she was punishing us by refusing to join us for supper!
    After our special St. John’s supper of grilled sardines, boiled potatoes, and roasted peppers, Mama listened patiently to all my excuses for having perpetrated what could only be rightly described as a theft. “Involving yourself in such a ludicrous escapade was foolish. And stealing another man’s property …” she remarked.
    “But birds are living things. They were in cages. They were suffering.”
    “I am aware of that, which is why I shall not punish you. What I don’t understand, John, is why you and Daniel painted the birds with such care, all the while knowing that you would give them away.”
    “Daniel has odd ideas sometimes. I suppose he hoped that the birdsellers might see in our wooden substitutes the evil in their trade.”
    Mama smiled at me then, the way she had when she’d come to my tarn for the first time, greatly moved by my permitting her an intimate knowledge of my world. Taking my hand, she touched my fingertips to her lips. “You know, John, I think Daniel wished to show the birdsellers how their cages rob dignity from everyone concerned – not simply from the birds.”
    “That’s it – that’s it exactly, Mama!” I cried.
    But a moment later I understood the depth of my failure. For the bird market would be up and flourishing next Tuesday as though nothing had happened.
    “What’s wrong, son?” she asked.
    When I explained, she said, “Nothing so evil can be brought toso swift an end. But you will have your victories.” She wagged her finger. “And without robbery, John – with words.”
    “With what words?”
    “You will convince them of their moral duty to free the birds – and not only that, but other things besides.”
    “How do you know that, Mama?”
    She squeezed my hand. “I know you. And I know what you can accomplish when you set your mind to it.”
    *
    After our dessert, Mama and I strolled through the city till after midnight. The evening was cool, and she draped her shawl over my shoulders. Several times strangers pointed to me and whispered , “There he is, there’s the child who is part bird….”
    Pride shone in Mama’s eyes when she looked at me.
    An elderly man with a crooked hand even patted my head and whispered to his wife, “They say this lad created a miracle today.”
    At that, Mama led me away and fell into a brooding silence. When we reached home that night, she knelt beside me outside our front door and whispered, “You must never make a show of yourself. It is dangerous. You must be careful to whom you show your gifts.” She gripped me hard. “Remember to keep something for yourself. You have no need to always be so trusting. When in doubt, wait.”
    Without giving me the chance to respond, she told me not to worry myself with her foolish chatter; she was simply missing my father. “I must be mad to talk to you like this,” she said, laughing. Turning the key in the lock, she sighed happily at finding our house just as we had left it.
    Upstairs, Mama sat on my bed, and I laid my head in her lap. She combed my hair with her soft fingers and sang me “Barbara Allen”: In Scarlet town, where I was born …
    At the tolling of one o’clock, she tucked me under the covers. I fell asleep with her playing me into the arms of Mozart on her pianoforte. Indeed, she must have played for many hours, for when I woke after dawn, I found her with her head resting on the piano lid, still in her clothes from the night before. A foldedpiece of paper had fallen on the floor. I picked it up and found two lines from Robert Burns’s “The Farewell” in my father’s handwriting:
    With melting heart, and brimful eye,
    I’ll mind you still, tho’ far away.

VII
    M y youthful affection for the United States was provided by Violeta, whose late clockmaker father had been born to Portuguese parents in Boston.