(Versión original en español)

Jacobo fancied himself a radio drama actor. Stationed in the middle of the living room, he addressed everyone who passed by with lines that, in his not-so-humble opinion, best suited the situation or character. He had an entire repertoire memorised over years of living with the family, particularly the man of the house—Juan to his friends, “the master” to the maid and creditors—who was undoubtedly his favorite.

Due to his disability, caused by a serious accident long before Jacobo entered the household, Juan spent most of his time seated in a chair just inches from the perch where the aspiring actor held court. This proximity had undoubtedly made him not only Jacobo’s primary model to imitate but also led the bird to openly adopt his point of view. It could almost be said that Jacobo, with his bright green feathers and hooked beak, had become Juan’s alter ego, saying without hesitation what would have sounded offensive coming from the man himself.

For instance, if the teenage son appeared with his usual scowl, Jacobo would declare in the same tone he’d heard from Juan, and as if casually, “Go study, go study,” prompting the boy to glare furiously in return. And if Francine, the lady of the house, approached from the dining room carrying a pile of dirty dishes, Jacobo would bellow in Juan’s deep voice: “Where are my ironed shirts?” or “When are you going to the store?” or “Have you cleaned the toilet yet?” Francine ignored him, for had she responded, she might have thrown the dishes at his head. Tolerating Jacobo in the household already meant accommodating another mouth to feed, though in his case, it was a beak.

But there were two things Jacobo particularly loved doing, as they let him showcase his histrionic talents. One was perching on the sideboard to admire himself in the mirror on the wall behind it. After gazing at his reflection for a long while, he would intone, always with the same melody: “Jacobo is a beautiful parrot.” He no longer remembered how or from whom he had learned it, but he was very proud of this skill and practiced it whenever he could.

The second was settling on the windowsill around four in the afternoon, when everyone had woken from their siestas, and perfumed women began to stroll along the street. From there, he would whistle admiringly, always following up with the same catcall Juan had taught him: “Hey, gorgeous! You’re looking fine!”

Many women walked on indifferently, but at least once or twice a week, one would take real offense, turn toward the window, and upon discovering the parrot, hurl insults or whatever she had on hand at him. Jacobo, as you may have guessed, lived freely in the living room and would dodge the projectiles by bobbing his head or flying back to his perch. Meanwhile, Juan, the instigator, would laugh uproariously from his chair.

Another trick that amused Juan just as much was when Jacobo, imitating his master’s voice, called the family’s new Dalmatian puppy. The poor dog, Tayo, would come sprinting from the back of the house on his long legs, only to find, bewildered, that it wasn’t his owner calling him. Barking furiously at Jacobo, the dog would leap up in frustration, but the parrot, to evade the snapping jaws, would alight on the chandelier, swinging it with his weight and shedding a few feathers in the process. Juan would laugh uncontrollably at his own prank until Francine arrived, scowling, swept up the mess, and shot daggers at her husband.

This state of affairs lasted several years, and it seemed it would continue indefinitely—at least as long as Jacobo lived, parrots being famously long-lived. But not even Juan could have predicted Jacobo’s theatrical ambitions or the fantasies his avian mind entertained about a brilliant stage career.

One summer afternoon, when Juan had left the house without telling anyone, Jacobo began shouting dramatically in his master’s voice, “Francine, Francine!”

Worried, Francine dropped what she was doing and hurried over. When she discovered it was once again the parrot and that her husband hadn’t even informed her of his absence, all her pent-up rage boiled over. She spat at the bird in utter disdain: “Stupid, rude bird! Next time, I’ll pluck your feathers!”

From his perch, with the dignity of a minister or a radio drama star, Jacobo returned her glare with equal disdain. Then, without a word, he spread his wings and flew out the window.

The family never heard from him again.

Never? Decades later, we find the son, long past his teenage years, living with his family in Brussels. It is a summer afternoon, and they’ve opened the windows wide, hoping for a breeze.

But what comes through is not just air—it’s a flurry of feathers and squawks. The first to spot him is the teenage son of the new family. Perched on the back of a dining chair is a green parrot, observing his surroundings with a know-it-all air.

Accustomed to watching animals, the boy stays very still to avoid scaring the bird away. For a few seconds, they stare at each other.

At that moment, Francine’s son—the once-reluctant student—emerges from a room. About to speak, he’s stopped by a gesture from the boy. Curiously, the man peers at the bird’s back and edges closer. But the parrot hears him, turns its head, and says, “Go study, go study.” Then, “Francine, Francine.”

The man’s eyes widen in shock, and he blurts out, “Jacobo?”
— “Jacobo is a beautiful parrot,” the bird sings in the old familiar tune.

Pointing at the bird and turning to his family, who have gathered to see what’s happening, the man stammers, “It’s Jacobo.”

“Jacobo?” his wife asks.

“Jacobo is a beautiful parrot,” the bird repeats. Then, with an admiring whistle, “Hey, gorgeous! You’re looking fine!”

The woman and children burst into laughter, and the parrot joins in, creating a cacophony of laughter that lasts several minutes.

The man, however, remains stunned. How had Jacobo survived the past forty or fifty years, and how had he found him?

Could it really be the same parrot from his childhood, spanning decades and oceans?

Desperately, he looks into Jacobo’s eyes, now tired from the journey and faded like his once-brilliant feathers. He asks, “How…?”

Jacobo leans his hooked beak toward the man’s nose and lets out an enormous sigh.

Dulce