By
Santa Montefiore
It all started and ended with Doña Angelina’s parrot. If it hadn’t been for the hot Chilean weather that inspired Clara to walk to work rather than sweat in an overcrowded bus she would never have run into it. As it happened she had taken the road that ran along side the Pacific, smiling in the sunshine, her gaze lost somewhere between the hazy blue horizon and the bright images of her own daydreams. She hadn’t noticed the parrot in time to avoid it and consequently the destiny that was at that moment suddenly thrust upon her. In a flurry of feathers and loud squawks it flew into her face, scratching her skin and drawing blood. She recoiled in horror to find that the poor creature was infinitely worse off than she was. Not only because it had fallen badly on the pavement and hurt itself, but because Doña Angelina was staggering across the road like a gladiator, wielding a rolling pin.
Clara knew of Doña Angelina, everyone in town did. Although she was a recluse, painting strange pictures that no one ever bought, her foul temper and shrieking voice were as notorious as the stories of her dubious past. It was said that she had been the Mayor’s mistress for years before taking lovers in exchange for cash and gifts. It was hard to imagine now, for she was shiny faced and fat like an irritable walrus and could have benefited from a touch of waxing, especially on her chin, but who could tell her? She had no friends. In her youth they said she had been beautiful and beneficent. Right now there was no trace of either quality as she huffed and puffed across the road to club the poor parrot to death. Clara instinctively shielded the bird with her body as Doña Angelina shouted at her to leave the beast to the Devil. “After all I have done for him, this is how he repays me! Small bird with a big mouth!” she cried.
“You can’t kill him!” Clara protested, picking the parrot up and cradling him in her arms.
“Then you keep him and on your head be it!”
Clara watched helplessly as Doña Angelina disappeared back into the shadows of her secret world leaving her with the trembling parrot cowering against her breasts. She sighed in resignation. The parrot needed looking after and she couldn’t leave it to die on the side of the road.
“Don’t worry little one, I’ll take care of you,” she said softly and turned back towards home. She would telephone her boss and explain. Business was slow at the moment and the salon had plenty of other girls who could step in to her shoes and do the odd manicure. Besides, the parrot would bring her good luck. It was an omen, for sure.
However, Lorecito, as the parrot was named, had damaged a wing as well as his vocal chords, for not only did he hop lamely around Clara’a kitchen, but he only managed to utter the odd rasping hiss. Doña Angelina had obviously scared the parrot half to death. Clara’s care would not be sufficient. She had to take him to the vet. She was surprised to find that a tall, fair skinned Englishman had recently joined Dr Ernesto Oswaldo’s small practice in the centre of town. He smiled at her warmly and the creases that rippled out from the corners of his mouth caused Clara’s heart to stumble. She was struck at once by Cupid’s bow and silently thanked her new feathered friend for having altered so favourably the course of her destiny.
Dr Montague’s Spanish was poor but charming. He was unable to pronounce his ‘r’s correctly and had an attractive way of looking up from beneath his floppy fringe with soft, sugar-brown eyes as if ashamed of his inadequate attempts to speak her language. His sense of dress was eccentric, with odd socks of green and blue and scuffed brogues, which looked strange in this small, South American town. He swept long fingers through sandy hair and Clara noticed that it was thick and glossy, remaining off his face not because it was unwashed but because it was waxy with health. His nonchalance attracted her too, because Chilean men cared so deeply about how they looked, Dr Montague obviously didn’t care much at all.
He took Lorecito from her and she laughed lightly because for a moment she had forgotten why she had come. Lorecito enjoyed the attention and lay back in his arms with abandon, blinking up at him adoringly with dewy eyes. Even Dr Montague chuckled at the creature’s surprising character. Clara watched transfixed as he bound the bird’s wing and checked him over for further damage. He handled him gently but firmly and Clara was appalled to find herself imagining those fingers touching her with the same expertise. She visualised Doña Angelina’s furious face until the moment had passed. “He needs to rest, but he’ll be fine,” he said in faltering Spanish. Then he looked Clara over appraisingly. She blushed as his eyes seemed to devour her features and averted her gaze to the floor. “Bring him back in a few days so I can see how he is,” he said and grinned at her almost mischievously. Clara felt herself blush. She nodded obediently and carried Lorecito out of the surgery and into the dazzling sunshine.
The following few days passed in a blur. Clara was unable to think of little else but the handsome vet and his tender fingers. Lorecito’s health improved. He obviously liked his new home and his new mother and enjoyed all the attention he received at the salon, where Clara delighted her clients by giving Lorecito a perch by the window to sit on. She did, however, wonder at times what it was he had done that had so infuriated Doña Angelina. “If only you could speak,’ she said with a sigh. “You could tell me all about it.”
Finally Clara found herself back in the waiting room of the small, air conditioned surgery, sweating with nervousness and anticipation while Lorecito climbed up her shirt and onto her shoulder. She looked about her. She recognised one or two of the women who waited with their animals, fanning themselves in spite of the cool air that was being pumped around the building. When Dr Montague appeared in the doorway and called her name, Clara felt numbed with love, as if her limbs belonged to someone else and she had to gather all the strength she could muster to follow him into his office. Once again he worked his fingers into Lorecito’s feathered body while the bird stretched his neck and blinked with pleasure. This time, however, Dr Montague’s eyes did not concentrate solely on his patient, but drifted to Clara where they rested with more than a glint of admiration. Clara did not withdraw her gaze but allowed it to sink into his with shameless abandon. When he leant over and kissed her she should have shrunk back. But his kiss was so soft and tender she was unable to resist and Lorecito was discarded on the bed while those expert fingers held her instead, caressing her neck and face with the same tenderness.
Dr Montague did not kiss like a Chilean. There was something new and exciting about the way he touched her and Clara’s mind drifted to the English films she had seen with Spanish subtitles, where women wore long dresses and bonnets and men brandished swords in tight trousers and shiny boots. This image gave Dr Montague a certain magic and Clara fell ever more deeply under his spell.
“Lorecito is much improved,” he said, returning to the bewildered parrot. “But I suggest you bring him in again in a few days for I would like to work on his voice.” Then while she perched the bird on her shoulder he added, “And call me Al.”
Clara returned home in a fever of excitement. He had kissed her and waved aside all formality. There was no doubt that this was an unusual courtship but perhaps in England they went about things in a different way. After all, there wasn’t so much difference between the two cultures, in Chile a man might kiss a girl in the back row of the cinema, Al had simply been unable to wait for such an opportunity. She admired his courage and loved him all the more for it.
Clara found that she was unable to eat, unable to sleep and barely able to concentrate on her work. When she appeared once again at the surgery she was thinner than before and more than a little drawn around the eyes, but her cheeks burnt from the eternal flame in her chest, fanned to excess by the infatuation that had seized hold of her heart.
This time Dr Montague barely cast a glance at the parrot. He held Clara around the waist and kissed her with urgency. “Oh, Clara, my treasure,” he said in English, over and over again, those expert fingers finding their way around the buttons of her shirt to where her flesh was hot and damp in spite of the air conditioning.
“I love you Al,” she murmured, closing her eyes and he murmured back,
“Clara, my treasure. Clara, my treasure,” and although she didn’t understand the words she knew that they meant something special. However, an innate sense of modesty caused her to suddenly step back and fumbling with her shirt she buttoned herself up, blinking in astonishment that she had allowed him to move so far so quickly. Besides, he hadn’t even asked for her telephone number. As if reading her thoughts he traced a finger down her cheek and suggested that she leave Lorecito with him for the afternoon so that he could work on his voice. “Come and pick him up this evening, then perhaps you will allow me to take you out for dinner.”
Clara felt less ashamed of herself. Dinner would allow him to court her in the proper fashion. Dr Montague might be a foreigner but they had a certain way of going about things in Chile, a certain decorum that had to be adhered to.
The afternoon dragged by. Clara didn’t bother going back into the salon although it had suddenly got very busy but went home to prepare for the night. She bathed in water sprinkled with rose petals and massaged her brown body with oils. Her mother had taught her how to shine her hair with beeswax and braid it with ribbon so that it fell down her back, almost touching her bottom, in a thick and glossy plait.
She was ready much too early so she lay in the shade beneath the orange trees, dreaming of the life she was going to enjoy with her Englishman, draped in a thin cotton dress and her own unique perfume. She dreamed the afternoon away in the fragrant garden, then made her way to the surgery.
The streets were hot and dusty, but she didn’t notice. Nor did she notice the young girl with the rabbit who stepped out onto the pavement, her cheeks aflame. Clara entered to be greeted by the charming doctor and Lorecito, who sat contentedly on his shoulder. “Come in, I’m just finishing off some paperwork,” he said, plucking the bird off his shirt and handing it to her. “I won’t be long.” He kissed her briefly and grinned. “I’m afraid, he still won’t talk. Perhaps he simply has nothing worth saying!” He wandered back into his office, but before he sat down he turned to her and added, “You small delicious, good enough to eat.” Clara returned his smile and laughed, pleased that he had noticed.
She sat down on one of the chairs and played with Lorecito, stroking his feathers, running her hands over his head and under his chin. “Why have you lost your voice, little friend?” she murmured gently. “Why won’t you speak to me?” Lorecito cocked his head. “I won’t ever be cross with you like Doña Angelina.” After a while Dr Montague was ready to leave. He slipped out of his white coat and turned off the air conditioning.
“Have you been busy?” she asked.
“Very. I scarcely have a moment to myself,” he replied with a heavy sigh. She stood up and he kissed her again. “Oh, Clara my treasure, what have I done to deserve you?” he said in English and Clara didn’t understand but knew he was saying something special. Suddenly Lorecito hopped about on her shoulder in agitation.
“He’s jealous,” she said with a giggle. This seemed to infuriate the parrot all the more. To their surprise a loud rattle escaped his throat, then a hiss and then what sounded like the cough of an old man. He coughed again as if clearing his throat. Clara looked at the doctor who frowned and shook his head. Lorecito opened his mouth and squawked in a clear, shrill voice:
“Clara, my treasure. Maria, my treasure. Julieta, my treasure. Elena, my treasure. My treasure, my treasure, my treasure, ja ja ja!”
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