Where Tigers Are at Home

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“Man’s swelling his pointed dick! Squaaawk! Man’s swelling his pointed dick!” Heidegger’s harsh, nasal, drunken-sounding voice echoed around the room.

Eléazard von Wogau looked up from his reading in sudden exasperation; half swivelling around in his chair, he grabbed the first book his hand lit on and threw it as hard as he could at the bird. At the other end of the room the parrot, with a vigorous, multicolored ruffling of feathers, rose from its perch just enough to avoid the missile. Father Reilly’s Studia Kircheriana landed with a crash on the table beyond it, overturning the half-full bottle of cachaça. It shattered on the spot, soaking the book that had fallen apart.

“Oh, shit!” Eléazard groaned.

For a brief moment he wondered whether to get up and try to save the book from further damage but then, catching the Sartrian look of the large macaw, which was pretending to be searching for something in its plumage, its head thrown back in an absurd attitude, its eye crazed, he decided to return to Caspar Schott’s manuscript.

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