‘Aw, God!’ said Downey, banging his heels on the floor. ‘Not that. Sing somebody else’s song!’ ‘I wanta sing this,’ said Clea, glowering at him. ‘Let her alone, Downey,’ said Otille with maternal patience. She put her hand on Donnell’s arm. ‘Downey wrote the song when he thought he was in love with me, but then he entered his narcissistic period and he’s ashamed to have written anything so unabashedly romantic’ She turned again to Clea. ‘Go ahead, dear.’
‘We’re behind you, sister,’ said Papa. ‘Don’t be bashful.’
Donnell wondered if anyone could possibly buy Papa’s cheerleading act. His face was brimful of bad wishes, and by course of logic alone it was obvious that Clea’s failure would improve his lot. She lifted her reedy voice again, and it seemed to Donnell to be the voice of Maravillosa, the sad, common sound of the dead trees and the ‘friends’ and the ebony faces, of Otille herself, of the sullen and envious relationships between the pets, the whine of a supernatural nervous system which governed them all. Even if no one were there to hear it, he thought, the sound would go on, arising from the wreckage of evil. A futile transmission like the buzz of a half-crushed wasp.
Clea faltered, a high note shrilled. ‘I can’t sing when he’s grinnin’ at me,’ she said, gesturing at Downey. ‘He’s makin’ me too nervous.’
‘Oh, hell!’ said Downey. ‘Lemme help her.’ He stalked over and took the guitar from her.
‘If it won’t interfere,’ said Otille. ‘Will it interfere?’
Clea could not hide her delight. She blushed, casting a furtive glance at Downey. ‘Maybe not,’ she said.
He pulled up a chair beside her, picked a fancy introduction of chords, and this time the song had the courtly feel of a duet between a country girl and a strolling balladeer.
Some of the birds were fluttering up in their cages, chirping, agitated; others perched on the bars, trilling, throats pulsing in a transport of song. Donnell felt Otille tense beside him, and he focused on Clea. Her magnetic field was undifferentiated by arcs, a nimbus of white light encompassing her and Downey and sections of all the cages. Through the glow, she looked like an enraptured saint at prayer with her accompanying angel. The face of her gros bon ange was ecstatic, a mosaic of cobalt interlaced by fine gold threads. Nearing its end, the song grew more impassioned and the white glow spread to surround the cages and every one of the birds was singing.
Otille was disappointed at song’s end. She praised Clea’s effort, acknowledged the result, but her displeasure was evident.
‘Lemme have a crack at them birds, Otille,’ said Papa. He popped his knuckles, eager to get started.
‘We all know what you can do, Papa,’ said Otille. ‘It will prove nothing to see it again. I was hoping for something more… more out of the ordinary.’
Clea hung her head. Downey picked out a brittle run of blue notes, uninvolved.
‘It’s obviously a matter of mood,’ said Simpkins. ‘When poor Pavarotti was struck down, I recall Sister Clea as bein’ in a snit, whereas today, makin’ music with her heart’s desire.,.’
‘He’s not!’ squawked Clea; she leapt up and pointed at him, fuming. ‘Lessee what you can do with ‘em! Nothin’, I bet!’
Downey smiled, strummed a ripple of chords.
‘If I begin to tweet,’ said Simpkins, ‘then indeed we have a proof positive of Sister Clea’s talent. But frankly I’m more interested in seein’ what Brother Harrison can achieve with our feathered friends.’
Otille pursed her lips and tapped them with an ivory finger. She cocked one eye towards Donnell. ‘Would you mind?’ she asked.
