Long After Midnight Read Online Free PDF

learned to talk like him! Papa used to line the drinks up on the counter and sit near the cage and
involve that bird in the best kind of conversation you ever heard, four nights
running. By the end of the second year, that parrot knew more about Hem and
Thomas Wolfe and Sherwood Anderson than Gertrude Stein did. In fact, the parrot
even knew who Gertrude Stein was. All
you had to say was "Gertrude" and the parrot said:
                 "Pigeons
on the grass alas."
                 At
the other times, pressed, the parrot would say, "There was this old man
and this boy and this boat and this sea and this big fish in the sea. .
.." And then it would take time out to eat a cracker.
                 Well,
this fabled creature, this parrot, this odd bird, vanished, cage and all, from
the Cuba Libre late one Sunday afternoon.
                 And
that's why my phone was ringing itself off the hook. And that's why one of the
big magazines got a special State Department clearance and flew me down to Cuba to see if I could find so much as the cage,
anything remaining of the bird or anyone resembling a kidnaper. They wanted a
light and amiable article, with overtones, as they said. And, very honestly, I
was curious. I had heard rumors of the bird. In a strange kind of way, I was concerned.
                 I
got off the jet from Mexico City and taxied straight across Havana to that strange little cafe"-bar.
                 I
almost failed to get in the place. As I stepped through the door, a dark little
man jumped up from a chair and cried, "No, nol Go away! We are closedl "
                 He
ran out to jiggle the lock on the door, showing that he really meant to shut
the place down. All the tables were empty and there was no one around. He had
probably just been airing out the bar when I arrived.
                 "I've
come about the parrot," I said.
                 "No,
no," he cried, his eyes looking wet. "I won't talk. It's too much. If
I were not Catholic, I would ldll myself. Poor Papa.
Poor El C6rdobal"
                 ^'El Cojdoba ?" I murmured.
                 "That,"
he said fiercely, "was the parrof s name!"
                 "Yes,"
I said, recovering quickly. "El C6rdoba. I've come to rescue him."
                 That
made him stop and blink. Shadows and then sunlight went over his face and then
shadows again.
                 "Impossible!
Could you? No, no. How could anyone! Who are you?"
                 "A
friend to Papa and the bird," I said quickly. "And the more time we
talk, the farther away goes the criminal. You want El C6rdoba back tonight?
Pour us several of Papa's good drinks and talk."
                 My
bluntness worked. Not two minutes later, we were drinking Papa's special, seated
in the bar near the empty place where the cage used to sit. The little man,
whose name was Antonio, kept wiping that empty place and then wiping his eyes
with the bar rag. As I finished the first drink and started on the second, I
said:
                 "This
is no ordinary kidnaping ."
                 "You're
telling me!" cried Antonio. "People came from all over the world to
see that parrot, to talk to El C6rdoba, to hear him, ah, God, speak with the
voice of Papa. May his abductors sink and burn in hell, yes, hell."
                 "They
will," I said. "Whom do you suspect?"
                 "Everyone.
No one."
                 "The
kidnaper," I said, eyes shut for a moment, savoring the drink, "had
to be educated, a book reader, I mean, that's obvious, isn't it? Anyone like
that around the last few days?"
                 "Educated.
No education. Senor, there have
always been strangers the last ten, the last twenty years, always asking for
Papa. When Papa was here, they met him. With Papa gone, they met El C6rdoba,
the great one. So it was always