A Secret Admirer

       A giant open book was resting on a carved ebony stand and dominated the small opalescent cave. “Aphroditic, aphrodisiography, aphrodisia…” A squeaky voice was mumbling from the depths of the book. Before a casual bystander (there was none, though) could imagine it was the book talking, a bird’s head with a curved obsidian-like beak and a green skullcap over the most peculiar curled purple and gold and green feathers popped up from between the pages. Practically anyone would identify it as a parrot, though even the most prominent ornithologists would have difficulty in naming the exact species. “Does it all deal with Africa?” Another voice, sweet and tinkling, chimed from a small pouffe near a translucent wall as if made of soap foam. The pouffe seat was embroidered with gold and silver thread, and a petite golden spider with a jade green cross on its back almost faded into its patterns. The spider—and she definitely belonged to a rare kind of singing spiders—was holding knitting pins, a crochet pin and a needle, and was deftly decorating a black piece of clothing much larger than her with the finest lace and embroidery of many bright colours. Her tools were flitting and glittering in the air, sharp tiny chelicerae were quivering as she counted loops, or cutting the threads already tied. “Wrong guess,” the parrot replied with forbearance. “It is related to venereal diseases or sexual intercourse. Poor words, they look pale.” “I understand the need to air all sorts of the words,” Dulcibelle, the spider, sounded rather scandalized, “but would you mind not to air them in the presence of a woman?” “How am I supposed to do that,” Parrot grumbled, “if you are always present during airing?” “Dear Dictionary,” this time, she addressed the book without skipping a beat in her work, “do you have any more sublime words of affection and romance that need airing?” “By Jove,” Parrot rolled his eyes, “you should really stop reading so many love novels, they are detrimental to anyone’s taste and vocabulary.” “You are correct, little spider,” the Dictionary replied in a voice of a nice old lady, as it was really a talking book. “Parrot, dear, please brush through the letter A once again, some suitable words are itchy with disuse.” A couple of pages riffled by itself back, and Parrot could barely step back to give them place. Then he scanned through the letter-speckled plane for any fitting entries. “Amorous, ahem, is it really that rare? Ardour… Well, attraction and attachment are not rare at all, as well as, here they are, admiration and affection. Amant, a beloved… Is it sublime enough for you? Agape, selfless love close to charity. Agapism, a belief that such love moves earth and heaven.” “It sounds precious,” Dulcibelle mused from her seat, her voice tender and mellow. “Such a pity these words are abandoned. Let’s say, have you—yes, I mean you personally—ever done anything for the sake of love?” “Dearest Dulcibelle,” Parrot bristled and looked down at her from the height of the book and bookstand. “It is not up to me to remind you what I did out of love for our common home, our beautiful Mythologia. I fought cockatrices, performed aerial reconnaissance, descended into the enemy’s dungeons, led an expedition to the deadly Werewolf Island. Finally, wrapped in vulgar mail paper, I embarked upon a perilous journey into the outer world to seek help!” “As I remember it,” the spider retorted, “you—and me also—were merely grabbed, packaged, and thrown out. It wasn’t something you did on your own. And gods, did you complain a lot until those nice kids let us out!” “Classical devaluation.” Parrot was indignant. “Alas, this word becomes ever more common. So, what is an epitome of love-driven action, in your opinion?” “What? Well, I tell you. Last week, we were out for a picnic, and H.H. wanted to conjure a fragrant eucalyptus curing sneeze all over the land and sea, but a slip of tongue made it a flagrant eucalyptus instead. It was rather disturbing… Right, you delivered him a lecture about plants then, and it was so riveting and ardent that I forgot all the world around me and came to my senses only when I tasted something strange in my mouth. Looking around, I found a tiny mini-violet bouquet and a leg segment of a male singing spider. An admirer had approached me to tell of his affection, only to be eaten with such neglect! And she cried so bitterly that she had to lay knitting pins aside to hold a handkerchief (a silk one, with lace margins and D&P monograms). Well, her other legs continued their fancywork. “What an absurd, ridiculous, utter nonsense!” Parrot cocked his head and nearly dropped his skullcap. “How could you possibly eat something your size without noticing it?!” “The thing is that male singing spiders are about fifteen times smaller than we ladies,” Dulcibelle explained from the depths of her handkerchief. “Maybe I mistook him for a moon-aphid cookie. Meanwhile, he was so brave! You can’t imagine how much courage those spider guys need merely to present themselves!” “What do you want then? To have my neck snapped? To see me grilled by cockatrices and swallowed whole by Oswald for good? It is you who is always warning me against every sensible activity that, in your highly erroneous opinion, bears even a hint of hazard!” Agitated Parrot didn’t notice his cap falling off his puffed feathers, didn’t notice the Dictionary patting him on the leg placatingly. “But you never heed my warnings!” In the heat of argument, Dulcibelle regained some spirit and returned to her craft, although her nerves were making threads tear and muss all the time. “Neither for your own sake nor even to save me from worry.” “By Jove! You’re driving me crazy. O women, much ado about nothing!” “O men! O men brought up by Dictionaries! They are the silly ones! And you dare to despise love novels while you understand only direct dictionary meanings and are unable to read between lines. Of all things, parrots are considered smart!… Oh, you made me lose count, I’ll have to undo this part.” “My precious Dulcibelle, you are exceptionally full of vigour today.” Parrot cooed, and the spider was almost completely pacified by this sudden change of tone. “Certainly, I cannot reach the summit of your sacrifice, where you have to tolerate such insufferable, silly creature as me for the sake of your love for housekeeping and handicrafts.” Certainly, she burst into crying again and had to drop all her crafts (save for embroidery). “For housekeeping?! For handicrafts?! Sure, you are always right, aren’t you! Out of my love for handicraft I take care of you without asking for the simplest gratitude, and even agree to one insult per week; ignore other spiders, even very brave and romantic young fellows; look after your health when you neglect it, make you warm clothes and dusters for the Great Books of Government, follow you into exile in a stupid parcel, prepare tackle for a whole army of weasels… No, now I shall go sulk.” She leaped down from the pouffe and to her golden cage under it and tried to slam the cage door behind her, but the piece of clothing she still held did not fit into that door (or even the cage). Dulcibelle hesitated, then trotted outside to fold her handiwork in a neat pile at the bookstand, scuttled back into her cage, and even drew a curtain. “By the way, this is for you,” she whimpered from behind the curtain. “A vest padded with baby fluff of griffons against droughts.” Parrot apologised to the Dictionary for an interruption and flew down to the floor to fetch the gift. The vest was gorgeous indeed: coal-black lustrous velvet was piped with pearly lace and decorated with lace figures of roses, lilies, chrysanthemums, and violets of all colours and sizes. And at the back, there was an embroidered portrait of Parrot himself, so true to life as if it was not stitched but rather photographed. He tried the vest on, and the spider was prompting him how to do it properly. Her tinkly voice was slightly hoarse from crying, and Parrot felt absolutely rotten. “Thank you for the vest,” he croaked at last. “It is very beautiful. And warm. And—I appreciate you as much as a parrot can appreciate a singing spider, his housekeeper, and—yes, I am nurtured by a dictionary. I love words above all. Yet it is not enough to say words; someone should listen to them, otherwise I am just a silly Poll talking to itself, or, as it has been said once… Right, a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. And you… you are the only one who always listens to me even when you sulk or are hurt by my words. You know… I do not mind revising our contract and disclaim the right to insult you once a week.” “Well.” Dulcibelle drew the curtain back for a fraction. “I must consider your offer. Yes, a revision would be nice, but instead of cancelling the insults, I suggest adding an obligation for you to say compliments to me once a week. Affectionate words need an airing too, don’t they?” “You are right, I am abysmal at reading between lines. I did not even suspect that I had a secret admirer,” continued Parrot, “but I understand what word you are waiting for from me. Sorry to disappoint you. You are not the Dictionary or Mythologia; you are a small singing spider. I respect you and appreciate you, I trust you, I am attached to you, and at the same time, you irritate, infuriate, exasperate me sometimes. All those are components of what I feel for you, but I do not know a single word, or a couple of words without propositions and articles, that would describe this feeling. And this is much rarer than a love.” He spread his wing towards the cage, and Dulcibelle reached to him, a needle-thin golden leg touching a purple flight feather. “You’ve grown up, my boy,” the Dictionary sighed from its stand. “I am so very proud of you. I guess we can call it a day for today. There is a unique flagrant eucalyptus near the mooncalf meadows. I suppose it is in desperate need of a picnic today and of some songs and harpsichord.”