Life with a feathered genius burdened by misanthropy and a phenomenal memory is a daily game of Russian roulette.
Only instead of a bullet in the chamber, there is a devastating word.
My husband Vadim had learned absolutely nothing.
Not even after the recent fiasco with his “financial schemes,” which, by the way, had turned out to be an attempt to buy a horribly expensive gaming console and disguise the spending as “profitable investments in bubble stocks.”
Nature had generously blessed him with optimism.
And completely deprived him of any instinct for self-preservation.
This time, a much larger threat was hanging over our household.
Vadim was waiting for a promotion.
The position of head of the sales department shimmered on the horizon like an oasis in the desert. But the path to it was blocked by the general director of their company — Lev Borisovich.
Lev Borisovich was a man of the old school, conservative to the marrow of his bones, and a fanatic of corporate ethics.
Rumor had it that his sense of humor was comparable to a slab of granite.
To finally tip the scales in his favor, Vadim made a fatal mistake.
He invited his boss to our home for dinner.
Preparations for the visit resembled a full dress rehearsal for the apocalypse.
“Lenochka, my sunshine,” Vadim fussed, rearranging volumes of Brodsky and Kafka on the coffee table, books he had never opened in his life.
He swallowed nervously.
“Lev Borisovich values intelligence. Tradition. Coziness.”
Vadim clasped his hands pleadingly.
“Please wear that dark blue dress, the one that makes you look like a rural schoolteacher from the nineteenth century. And hide the cat litter box somewhere. He can’t stand animals.”
“We don’t have a cat, Vadik. We have a parrot,” I reminded him, slicing roast beef for the oven.
Vadim froze like a deer in headlights.
He slowly turned his head toward the massive wrought-iron cage that occupied the place of honor in the living room.
There, on an oak perch, sat Socrates.
The African grey parrot was watching my husband’s frantic movements attentively, slowly and infernally crunching on a peanut.
In his yellow eyes there was a contempt worthy of a Roman emperor gazing down upon the bustle of plebeians.
“Socrates…” Vadim began ingratiatingly, slowly approaching the cage.
He tried to smile.
“My little bird. We have an important guest tonight. A very important one.”
Vadim lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper.
“It depends on him whether we’ll be eating elite feed or switching to bargain millet. Do you understand?”
Socrates stopped chewing.
He tilted his head to one side, fixing Vadim with an unblinking stare.
“No comments, Socrates,” my husband continued begging. “No movie quotes.”
Vadim sighed heavily.
“And for heaven’s sake, don’t imitate the sound of a toilet flushing when the guest is making a toast. I’m begging you.”
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Then the parrot elegantly shifted from one foot to the other. He cleared his throat — in the perfectly human, velvety baritone of my late uncle.
And said:
“Bargaining is inappropriate here.”
Vadim groaned and clutched his head.
“Lena!” he cried in despair. “Maybe we can cover him with a blanket? Say the bird is sleeping? Sick? Has flown off into the astral plane?”
“If you cover Socrates with a blanket, he’ll start quoting the Criminal Code article on unlawful imprisonment,” I replied calmly, putting the meat into the oven.
I shut the door and turned to my husband.
“And believe me, he knows it by heart. Relax, Vadik. What could possibly go wrong?”
At exactly seven o’clock, the doorbell rang.
Lev Borisovich turned out to be an imposing man with a crimson face and heavy breathing.
He had the look of a man accustomed to firing people before breakfast.
He lowered himself heavily onto our sofa. Graciously accepted a glass of expensive cognac, bought by Vadim with our last savings. And began to hold forth.
He talked for a long time, tediously, and exclusively about himself.
About his brilliant management strategy. About how young people nowadays didn’t want to work. About the importance of loyalty and “corporate spirit.”
Vadim outdid himself.
He nodded so frequently that I was afraid his head might fall off.
He agreed with everything and laughed at the boss’s unfunny jokes.
My husband radiated so much flattery that the air in the living room became sticky and sweet, like molasses.
“You see, Vadim,” Lev Borisovich boomed, putting a piece of meat into his mouth.
He chewed slowly.
“In business, the main thing is honesty. Transparency of intentions.”
The boss swept us with a stern gaze.
“I always see right through people. I value those who are frank with me, those who don’t keep a stone hidden behind their backs.”
He looked directly at my husband.
“You are that kind of man, aren’t you, Vadim? You are devoted to our common cause?”
“Absolutely, Lev Borisovich!” my husband exclaimed passionately, pressing his hands to his chest.
There was genuine fervor in his voice.
“Your vision for the company is my compass! I consider your methods of work exemplary.”
Vadim leaned forward.
“It is an honor for me to learn from you every day.”
I sighed quietly and reached for my glass of water.
And at that very moment, in the perfect living-room silence, thick with falsehood, a sound rang out.
It was the sound of a lighter clicking.
And a deep inhale.
All three of us reflexively turned our heads toward the source of the sound.
In the cage, proudly puffing out his grey chest, sat Socrates.
He was not smoking, of course.
He was simply setting the stage.
Having finished his sound imitation of smoking, Socrates sighed heavily and painfully.
The sigh was so realistic, filled with such universal sorrow…
That Lev Borisovich even raised his eyebrows.
And then the merciless law of acoustic karma kicked in.
Socrates began to speak.
But it was not the voice of my refined uncle.
From the beak of the African grey parrot flowed Vadim’s voice.
Absolutely identical. Down to the tiniest intonations, hoarseness, and nervous pauses.
“That old bald bastard has completely lost touch with reality,” Socrates said in my husband’s voice.
He articulated every word clearly.
Vadim’s face instantly turned the color of a freshly whitewashed ceiling.
Lev Borisovich froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.
“Corporate spirit, my ass,” the feathered broadcaster of other people’s secrets continued.
He perfectly copied Vadim’s irritated tone, the one he usually used while pacing around the kitchen after work.
“He’s a dinosaur! He can’t tell a formula from a cell in Excel!”
“Uh… the bird just… watched too much television!” Vadim squeaked.
He tried to jump up, but his legs refused to obey.
“Crime dramas…”
But Socrates could not be stopped.
He was having his grand performance.
He had caught the rhythm.
The bird held a perfect theatrical pause, as though giving the audience time to process what they had heard. Then he produced the sound of whiskey being poured into a glass.
“Never mind, Lenka, we’ll endure it,” Socrates said soulfully in the same Vadim voice.
The parrot paused briefly.
“I’ll nod at that tyrant like a Chinese bobblehead, agree with every bit of nonsense.”
Another pause.
“I’ll get the department head position, steal his VIP client database, and jump ship to the competitors.”
And then came the final chord:
“Let that senile old fool compile his own reports.”
A vacuum descended over the living room.
It seemed as if all the oxygen had been pumped out of the room. Time stopped.
The piece of meat fell from Lev Borisovich’s fork back onto his plate with a soft thud.
That tiny sound rang out like the shot of a starting pistol.
The boss slowly, very slowly, dabbed his lips with a napkin. His crimson face took on a dangerous purple shade.
He did not look at Vadim.
He looked exclusively at the bird.
“Phenomenal diction,” Lev Borisovich said hoarsely, yet surprisingly calmly.
He crumpled the napkin.
“Astonishing transparency of intentions.”
He rose heavily from the table. Straightened his jacket.
“Lev Borisovich! It’s not what you think!” Vadim babbled, rushing after his boss into the hallway.
My husband was in a panic.
“I assure you, it’s some kind of mistake of nature! He’s lying! Parrots are… they’re like crows, they’re malicious!”
Lev Borisovich silently put on his coat. Took his cane umbrella.
Only at the very door did he finally turn around.
And he looked at my husband with a gaze in which the ashes of all corporate hopes lay resting.
“Your wife makes excellent roast beef, Vadim,” he said dryly.
He adjusted the collar of his coat.
“But tomorrow morning I will transfer the client database to encrypted access.”
His voice turned icy.
“I expect your resignation letter on my desk by nine in the morning. Don’t trouble yourself with explanations. I have no need for bobbleheads on my staff.”
The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud.
Vadim sank helplessly to the hallway floor, clutching his head in his hands.
He looked like a captain whose Titanic had not merely struck an iceberg…
But had been shot by that iceberg from torpedo tubes.
I silently cleared the table.
Inside me, two powerful feelings were battling each other.
Genuine sympathy for my husband.
And an absolutely hysterical desire to burst out laughing.
A sound came from the living room again.
Socrates climbed down the bars of the cage to the very bottom.
He approached the little door. Looked at grief-stricken Vadim in the hallway. Then shifted his gaze to me.
Ancient, mocking demons danced in his eyes.
“Truth, my friend, is born in disputes, but dies in monologues,” Socrates declared philosophically.
The voice of my intellectual uncle sounded flawless.
Then he deftly hooked a piece of unfinished apple with his claw. Tossed it into his beak.
And before returning to the upper perch, he added in his own voice — hoarse and grumbling:
“Curtain. Everyone go home.”
