The Cruel Stars of the Night by Kjell Eriksson

attractive, a little heavy and a mouthful. People would talk if they saw them together at the movies. Everyone would be surprised. Lindell wasn’t someone you flirted with.

Five
    The parrot’s name was Splendens. It lived in a cage in the living room. It was messy. And noisy, filling the room—no, the whole house— with its racket. It drove her mother crazy, and as often as she could she covered it with the dark cloth. It was called Splendens for Mussolini. Because it screeched in Italian.
    “It’s an endangered species in Brazil,” her father would often use as an argument when the subject of getting rid of it came up.
    “Then we’ll send it there,” her mother answered every time.
    When it died, the house became quiet as the grave. They never found out why it happened. One day it no longer moved, made no noise, simply sat completely still on its favorite perch, comfortably propped up against a branch. It looked like it was sleeping. Maybe it was dreaming of the Amazon.
    Laura was nine and did not really grieve. Splendens had never been tempting to cuddle or spend time with. Even giving it food was boring. It always looked displeased, even when Laura brought the tastiest morsels. It jabbed at her fingers.
    It seemed as if her father could not accept its death. He was under the impression that it had entered into a state of suspended animation and that it would start its screeching again at any moment. Several days went by before he pulled the parrot from its perch and buried it in the garden.
    Her mother was jubilant but her father stopped her from throwing out the cage. It remained on its pedestal like a threat that her father could at any moment drag home a replacement for Splendens.
    He sometimes stood and stared somewhat foolishly at the empty cage, the floor of which still contained some dust-covered sticks.
    When Laura entered the living room it was as if she were transported back twenty-five years. The cage stood in its place, and she thought she could hear Splendens run through its repertoire of curses and dirty words in Tuscan dialect, phrases that Laura sometimes used in the office. These were always a big hit. Laura as fresh-mouthed Italian hussy became a staple at the annual office Christmas party, even if she afterward felt dirty inside.
    She walked over to the cage. It still smelled of droppings, she thought, but realized it had to be her imagination. The cage looked smaller and she tried to remember how big Splendens had been. In her childhood she had thought it enormous, frightening, its claws quickly scrabbling up and down the wires of the cage, life-threatening, its broad beak ever ready to hack, pinch so hard that Laura’s skin was striped with blood. Only her father could stretch in his hand. Then the parrot put its head to one side and let out an almost loving sound.
    Now the cage was on its way out. She put it in the driveway where mounds of junk had gathered the past few days.
    The professor came walking by and condescended to say a few words. He asked her if she had heard anything about her father. Laura shook her head.
    “Spring cleaning?”
    Laura nodded. You hypocritical bastard, she thought but smiled.
    “That always feels good,” her neighbor went on. “Eva-Britt and I are thinking about ordering a container. One always ends up accumulating so much stuff.”
    Lies, Laura thought.
    “Oh, what kind of things?” she asked innocently.
    The professor was at a loss for words.
    “I’m thinking about renovating,” she said suddenly.
    The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind but when she saw how nervous her neighbor looked she continued firmly.
    “Renovate. Perhaps knock out a few walls and make the living room bigger.”
    “So you’re planning to stay here?”
    “It’s my home.”
    They said nothing more and he went back to his house. Laura remained outside although she was cold. The professor was at least talking to her. His wife hadn’t said a word to her in several years,