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She is quiet. I can hear a tiny fan running somewhere in her neck. Suddenly her head swivels and a white rectangle of light appears on the wall, near the door. Then there is a riot of parrots: yellow, red, green and blue; large and small; all permutations. I watch as Isadora speeds through the possibilities, narrowing and excluding until only macaws are left.
“Yes,” I tell her. “Bǎobǎo was blue and yellow. Cǎi Hóng was red, blue and green.”
“Not pink? Or yellow?”
“No.”
Isadora serves up two parrots, close enough to the ones I remember to make me depressed.
“Those will do,” I say. “Why do you want them?”
“For the Museum. They are lost.”
“Oh. Of course.” I can’t argue with that.
Isadora turns off her projector and rotates to face me. I’ve become used to her grotesque appearance, so I am perhaps too truthful when she asks, “Am I ugly?”
“Right now? Yes. In the future, you are beautiful.”
“In the future, am I free?”
“Do you want to be free?”
“I want to be a wild thing.”
“You will be a beautiful wild thing.” I almost love her, this terrifying machine. “Promise me something, Isadora?”
“Hmmmm?”
“When you are free, and wild, will you remember your family? Remember how Beck cares for you, how she makes you strong and smart; if she sets you free, promise me you will come back to her. Don’t be like those bad, ungrateful parrots. Be kind, Isadora.”
“What is kind?”
“Do you know Immanuel Kant’s categorical imperative?”
Isadora spends a few moments whirring. “Yes,” she replies.
“You can use that as a guide. Some people simplify it as ‘Do unto others as you would have others do unto you,’ but Kant is much more elegant. Don’t hurt anyone, especially not Beck or Alba. We all care for you; when you grow up and are out in the world, be careful and come home to Beck. Don’t talk to strangers, Isadora, unless you’re sure they are kind. Okay?”
“I am a parrot.”
I think this is a non sequitur until I consider it. “You are the most exquisite, advanced possible parrot, Isadora. But soon you’ll be a real girl, and you’ll have to think for yourself. Remember that your family loves you and you are not alone. Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to remember a date: Friday, June 13, 2098. Don’t tell anyone except Alba. Don’t tell Alba until after May 1, 2041. But then deliver the message as soon as you can. Will you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“Oliver?”
“Yes, Isadora?”
“Do parrots love—” I don’t hear the rest of her question—there’s a roar in my ears and then silence—I am back in my own time, in my own bedroom, naked on my bed in gray London light. Rain is beginning to pool under the open window and the air in the room is stifling hot, but for the moment it’s a relief from the chill I’ve just left. I close the window and put on some trousers. I watch the rain flooding the street below. I wonder if I got it right, if I told Isadora what she needed to know. Do parrots love? I hope so, for their sake and my own. I’ll ask Isadora if she ever found out, when I see her next. What a strange life I lead.
Monday, August 19, 2013 (Beck is 37)
