Relative

An owl. That it wasn’t a parrot in the middle of Princeton was to be expected, but it could have been a crow. Or a starling. Or at least a fly-away budgie from one of the retired ladies over at Riverwalk. But no, it was a freaking barn owl. It couldn’t be any worse than that, really. And the reason for that wasn’t that the bird had zero capability of imitating human speech but rather that it was one of the most simpleminded species of the avifauna altogether. Huge eyes, small brain. There was no way they would get anything useful out of it.

Simon took a big bite from his mortadella sandwich while the bird started tilting its head to an alarming degree, never even once blinking those pitch black eyes. It was ominous to say the least. But well, there were some delectable pistachios in his meat, he noticed, so it wasn’t all that bad.

Simon was a linguistics expert and he had worked with lots of subjects from the corvus family, as well as cockatoos and parrots. Never with an owl though. They were just not intelligent enough for his kind of research. Not that anyone had ever really tried, but there were reasons for that, so why even bother.

Then there was Maria, an animal psychologist. She had much higher hopes for their endeavour and she obviously held Simon in contempt for being so pessimistic about the whole thing. But he couldn’t help it. He just didn’t see it happening.

And then there was Jonathan. Simon had no idea what Jonathan was all about. He had failed to ask him when they first met and now he was too embarrassed to admit it. They were all standing around the bird, not really knowing what to do with it. But it was just day two, so no one expected anything yet.

A piece of pistachio fell from Simon's snack and the bird quickly jerked its head to follow it with its eyes. Simon looked after it, too, while Maria was staring Simon down with her double-homicide-look. She hated it when he ate in the study and she had told him so a few times already. And it was still just day two.

Day two after Einstein’s death. Day two of people obsessing over his unheard last words. Day two of his poor nurse being poked left and right about recalling things. But the only thing she could recall was that owl sitting in front of the open window when Einstein breathed out his last remark. That owl that was now sitting on a bar in the middle of Maria’s study.

All four of them were looking at the pistachio on the floor now and Simon shifted his weight from one foot to the other before deciding to pick it up and throw it in the trash. Maria said something about workplace hygiene to the back of Simon’s head but he wasn’t listening. This wasn’t a chemistry lab, just a glorified office of sorts. And besides, they had to stimulate that bird somehow, and food was a pretty good start. That was exactly what he told Maria after she had calmed down a bit and she somewhat agreed after sneering one last time at him.

Then Jonathan proposed to give the owl a proper name, as if that would change anything, and as if they didn’t have anything better to do. But Simon shrugged his shoulders and agreed. He agreed to “Archimedes” and then later to “Canary” and then to “Owlbert Einstein”. It was all the same to him but in the end they settled on the latter while Simon started nibbling on a peanut-butter-chocolate-chip-cookie. Maria was about to explode, it was palpable. But even she could hardly deny that the bird, now called Owlbert, wanted that cookie just as much as Simon.

So they went with food and had four dozen frozen pinkies delivered by day three. And they had buttons and lights and a miniature microphone and a bean bag for Jonathan and a 35 ounce bulk package of Snickers for Simon and nothing new for Maria, because this was her office for about 6 years after all.

They consumed roughly 3 liters of coffee every day since and on day nine even Maria started to suspect that Owlbert would never be able to reproduce Einstein’s last words. Simon still didn’t know what degree Jonathan was here for, but whatever it was, it made him realize their predicament much earlier than Maria’s did. So one by one they lost all confidence until they all gave in to nervous snacking, even Maria herself. It was inevitable at this point.

And every day Simon gave the bird a new ridiculous nickname to cheer them up. And every day another reporter surfaced on their doorstep, pestering them with unanswerable questions. And every day Peter from funding paid them a visit and the dialogue with him grew more and more tiresome with each word he threw at them. And every day Owlbert did absolutely nothing. He just diminished their pinkie stock and contributed largely to the unhygienic state of Maria’s study. The bird never earned her antipathy for it though.

But they admittedly had some really good days amidst all that. Not in regards to their progress. That was pretty much nonexistent. But regarding their team spirit. It started with karaoke on the miniature microphone, then went on to sciencey charades and finally extended to elaborate light shows behind drawn sun-blinds in the middle of those April-days. They had to use their equipment somehow after all. In short: they had fun. As much fun as scientists can have when confronted with an impossible mission.

But then, on day twelve, Jonathan, who was a specialist for nonverbal communication as Simon now finally had found out, was putting on some music on an old record player. It was Mozart. Simon wasn’t exactly fond of classical music, but Owlbert apparently was and they all got aware of it immediately after Jonathan had dropped the needle on the vinyl. Because Owlbert was hooting in unison with the rhythm of the violin sonata No. 18 and it admittedly was a real treat to witness. They were too perplexed to react accordingly. They must have given the impression of tenth-graders during their first chemistry class, being mesmerized by burning copper sulfate.

Simon dropped his serving of warm apple crumble on his workstation that he had brought for the three of them and Maria torched her fingers on a match that she was about to light some incense with. For the psyche, she said. They didn’t dare to move any more than that and instead they just stared at Owlbert who finally had his penetrating eyes closed for once and who added some shy noises to the complex upbeat melody here and there.

It seemed random at first but at day fifteen they all agreed that Owlbert had a keen ear for Mozart. And they got immensely excited and increased their coffee consumption to 5 liters and a half and it smelled like lavender and honey snaps and bird droppings and Maria didn’t complain about workplace hygiene anymore. And when Peter poked his head in on day twenty-one they actually, finally, had something to show for his funding.

Peter was delighted. And the three of them anyway of course. And the journalists were, too. And so was the nurse, because they got off her back about her never-missed-to-mention faux pas at last. And the audience in the Taplin auditorium on day twenty-six after Einstein’s death was delighted, too.

So they took center stage, Simon, Maria and Jonathan, and it was magical. And it was a concise thing, too. Because there was nothing to add there, nothing to question, nothing to untangle. It was as clear as day and Jell-O and one's parents' explanation of teenage motherhood before heading out to prom night. It was logical. It was simple.

And Simon’s worldview was pretty much shattered, because he realized how much it all mattered, and how little at the same time. But at least he didn’t have to die first to come to this conclusion, like Einstein did twenty-six days ago. He didn’t have to stand at the edge of the Elysian Fields to become aware of the one undeniable fact: that truly everything was relative. Not just time and space.

The length of twenty-six days was relative. The taste of brussel sprouts was relative. The importance of success was relative. The worth of money was relative. The severity of pain was relative. The extent of love was relative. Even the finality of death was relative.

And so were Einstein’s last words. Because it didn’t matter that he said them in German or that an owl was hooting them back to Mozart. Because they meant something different to everyone anyway. Because every single one of them had a different past and a different present and certainly also a different future ahead.

There really was just one possible answer to the one big conundrum that Einstein concluded on his deathbed. And that was nothing less than the question of the meaning of life itself, which was the part that mattered so much. And the answer was - and that was the part where Simon felt a bit lost for words and feelings and the sense of accomplishment unfortunately, too - that it was, without a doubt, just totally relative.