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SO silly, especially when I
didn’t know who wrote it.
    The next morning a new
letter arrived. And then another. This went on for several weeks. Not every
day, but maybe every other, every third day. For a while I thought my secret
admirer was a doctor. He devoted so much time to describing my body
parts—not in a vulgar way—that I thought he was more interested in anatomy
than love.
    Of course I could have
waited by the door and opened it when the letter came through the chink, but
I didn’t want to know who my suitor was. It was more exciting this
way.
    Daddy isn’t mean. I
realize of course that he treats me like a little cub, and according to my
girlfriends I’m living more or less completely CONFINED, which they think is
a SCANDAL and TERRIBLE. But it’s no scandal at all. For one thing I like
being at home, in my beloved room. And when I go out Daddy always makes sure
I have someone with me. That has to do with my SECURITY.
    Daddy has never tried to
lie about what he does. I know that La Cueva, his beloved restaurant, loses
money. That’s why it can afford to be so amazing. Yes, to be sure sometimes
he robs a post office, but above all he takes care of security in Sors. The
police aren’t enough, not down here. So somebody has to take responsibility.
And I know there are those who say that the payment Daddy rakes in for
taking care of security is unreasonable, but I know just as many who think
it’s good that someone makes sure that society functions. Even in Yok, where
society doesn’t function.
    For that reason Daddy has
enemies. Trying to get at him through me is not an unnatural thought. I’m
Daddy’s jewel. I’m the finest thing he knows, the one he cares about most of
all. Injuring me would hurt him frightfully. Everyone knows that. It’s not
strange that he sends a couple of bodyguards with me when I go out. It’s not
strange that I don’t get to drive a car.
    It’s no wonder, even if
my so-called girlfriends try to make it into something else.
    Stavros Panther was
waiting for me in the dry storage room—a big, windowless room at the back of
the kitchen, and you go there to fetch flour, sugar, salt, spices, coffee;
well, everything that needs to stay dry in a restaurant kitchen. I was going
to get flour, and he almost scared the life out of me.
    â€œShh,” he hissed. “It’s
me, Stavros Panther.”
    Because it was dark in
the storeroom and the panther was completely black, I could see nothing but
his eyes glistening in the pale light from the kitchen. The fear ran out of
me. The bad speller, I thought.
    â€œI’m taking a big risk,”
he said. “But it’s worth it.”
    â€œAnd you’re exposing me
to great danger,” I answered. “You’re like all other males, only thinking
about yourself.”
    Stavros became
desperate.
    â€œI promise,” he swore
solemnly, “that you, Beatrice Cockatoo, the darling of my heart, will never
be disappointed in me again. If you want I will get out of your life from
this moment, you only need to ask for it.”
    â€œGet out,” I answered
coldheartedly, but also to tease him.
    I saw him blink in
desperation, as if what I’d said was impossible, and he immediately broke
the promise he had just made.
    â€œBut . . . you
must give me a chance!”
    Obviously I gave him a
chance. I’m not mean. I can’t keep from feeling a little sorry for all these
pining males who are fascinated by me in one way or another. Is it my white
feathers? Or is it the yellow comb on my head? Presumably it’s neither-nor.
Presumably it’s because I’m unapproachable. That my daddy is dangerous and
I’m his finest trophy. That makes me, in some eyes, exciting. I believe that
was the case with Stavros Panther.
    When I read this passage I could not keep from
comparing it with Cockatoo’s first encounter with Fox Antonio Ortega,