Goodbye to Pasta

On the seventh morning, Polly came down to the tank early. The lab was quiet. Chiara would not be in for another hour. The institute had been waking up like this every morning for one hundred and fifty-four years.

Pasta was at the front of the tank.

This was not normal. For six mornings, Polly had perched on the rim and the octopus had been folded in her pipe, or drifting in a corner. Today the octopus was pressed against the front wall, all eight arms spread loosely against the glass, her single visible eye level with Polly's.

They looked at each other.

What passes between a parrot and a giant Pacific octopus is probably not friendship. The octopus might simply have been investigating the warm-blooded creature that had been around her tank for six days. Octopuses can read warmth through their skin. They can read movement through their suckers. They were collecting information.

Polly hopped along the rim. The octopus's eye tracked her, then her arms shifted slowly to follow. When Polly stopped, the eye stopped.

For seven full minutes they watched each other. The water filter hummed softly.

Then the octopus did something Polly had not seen her do all week. She unfurled one arm slowly and pressed the very tip of it against the glass exactly opposite where Polly's foot was resting. The suckers spread, then stilled.

Polly lowered her beak to the glass and touched it gently with her closed beak. Through the cold glass, on her side, there was nothing. On the octopus's side, perhaps a great deal.

The arm stayed for one long minute. Then it slid back into the water.

Chiara came in with two coffees. "You are leaving," she said. "I imagined this would happen. Travel safely. Come back when you can."

Polly lifted off the rim. She flew out down the long corridor of the institute, past the sardines and the kelp, and out into the bright morning of the Villa Comunale. The Bay of Naples opened in front of her.