American Chica_ Two Worlds, One Childhood - Marie Arana [68]
He was a naturalist, a botanist, a biochemist, a pioneer of cryogenics, and “an all-round genius,” according to my papi. But more important, as far as we were concerned, he was a pushover for us.
He was small, spry, and wizened, with shocks of white hair sprouting from either side of his head. When he caught sight of us, his eyes would grow bright, almost numinous, and he’d wave us forward to hear his thoughts about some natural wonder. On his first day in the little house beside the Bowling Club, Birdseye had announced that any and all children were welcome in his home. “Especially welcome,” he added with a twinkle in his eye and a shiver of his wild mane, “if they bring me good business.”
Business meant animals of any kind, dead or alive. Insects, small mammals, snakes, lizards, birds—it didn’t matter—he would buy them from us for a few centavos and add them to his working lab. His lab, he told us, might be working on anything, so it was best to haul it all in. He never knew when inspiration would come. On an expedition to Alaska, studying the habits of bears, he had thought of a way to quick-freeze fresh vegetables. Years later, when we saw his colorful Birds Eye bricks lining the frozen-food aisles of U.S. grocery stores, we realized that the work he was doing out in the field, including Peru, had ended up making him a very rich man. But at the time, he seemed little more than a madcap Merlin with pint-size associates. And a can full of cash on his desk.
When we got home, we left our horses with Señor González and traipsed down the street toward prosperity and the Birdseye house. It was a one-floor structure with a towering casuarina tree flaunting its bright yellow flowers by the front door. No gate, no fence. Every time we saw that door we marveled at the fact that we were approaching it immediately from the street. Until we’d laid eyes on Birdseye’s house, the only portals we saw so directly were the doors of indigent shacks. The place was open, permeable, accessible from any side. In the back, where the sweet-natured Mrs. Birdseye spent most of her days, there was a flower and orchid garden. Peacocks wandered through, unfurling their tails and flouncing about like Inca conquerors. Parrots chattered in the trees. Birds, animals, people like us, could drift onto Birdseye property freely. An aura of welcome surrounded the place.
The manservant who answered the door received us warmly and led us to Dr. Birdseye’s massive garden table—a green slab of wood cluttered with sticks, instruments, glass, and a large tin can. The doctor was perched on a high chair behind.
He was gray in every aspect except for his eyes, which were sharp blue and glistening. Through the glass of his spectacles they seemed large and material as planets. There was a slight hunch in his spine from bending over tables too much, peering into a gallery of lenses he kept in a box on a shelf. As we approached, I saw that he was in his threadbare white lab coat, buttoned right up to his chin.
“My assistants!” he called out when he saw us, flinging his small arms wide.
George produced our rat, brandishing him by one foot.
“But that’s not a legitimate rat, dear Watson!” the doctor said, taking the scraggly creature between two fingers. “It’s a cuy, don’t you know? A guinea pig. You Peruvians have them for dinner! Haven’t you seen one toasted and floating in a nice peanut sauce? A few hours sooner and you might have made a good criollo meal with this little fellow. As it is, he’ll make a better tidbit for me. What’ll it be, my dear Watsons? Twenty?”
We nodded happily. Twenty centavos. A candy at Wong’s. Birdseye scrabbled noisily in his tin can, pulled out a coin, and slapped it on the table. “There.”
We reached for the money, passed it to each other, and studied it closely before George tucked it into his pants. Birdseye smiled