Songbirds(13)

The older woman smiled politely but didn’t answered. The younger one brushed her hair away from her forehead and placed both of her hands between her knees. These small movements told me that the women were not comfortable. I downed another beer. The two women disappeared into the crowd.

Seraphim ordered couscous from one of the barmaids.

‘Couscous?’ I said, and he winked.

In a short while she returned carrying a ceramic pot on a silver tray. She placed the pot and two small plates and cutlery on the bar.

‘Have a look at this, my friend,’ said Seraphim. ‘In season. Organic. You must love them.’

He opened the pot and dug into it with a fork – pulling out a tiny poached songbird. Steam wound in ribbons out of the pot, mixing with the cigarette smoke already in the air. He delicately placed a couple on my plate and a couple on his. Then he threw one into his mouth, crunching into its bones with relish.

‘Go for it,’ he said. Mouth full. ‘You must like them. I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t. Didn’t you have them when you were a boy?’ He spat on the counter.

I told him that I did. And that I knew that it was illegal to eat these birds.

‘I’m not too hungry,’ I said. ‘I had a huge meal before I came out. Still bloated.’

‘Looks like it might be harder for me to get you on my side than I thought.’ Seraphim swallowed the last bit of bird and used the nail of his pinkie finger to remove meat from his tooth. I felt like gagging.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘These songbirds – how shall I put it? They are on your plate courtesy of me. You can say that I’m keeping the tradition alive. But I catch them in their thousands. Another pair of hands would double my income. It’s just a few traps a week during the hunting seasons.’ He paused, considering me. ‘After all, how did you think I lived so well?’

I didn’t respond.

‘I see your dapper clothes and your good looks are your cover-ups. But you’re struggling, my friend – don’t think I can’t see that. I saw it in your eyes in the grocery store. It was right there, slashed across your face like a huge scar.’

Once again, I said nothing. But Seraphim had sussed me out. It was his mighty skill.

‘You don’t have to give me an answer now. Think about it, and I’ll call you in a week. If you say yes, we’ll start straight away. I need an apprentice. Someone I can trust. You’ve always been trustworthy, haven’t you?’ He grinned broadly for a moment and then pushed the plate towards me. ‘If nothing else, at least try one. It’ll take you right back to your childhood.’

*

I realised I had hardly touched my dinner. I got up and put it in a Tupperware box to store in the fridge. I gave the little bird some more water and it drank, drop by drop. I had put out a plate of seeds in the morning and it had eaten quite a bit. Then I nestled it in my palms and took it out, once again, to the balcony to wait for 11 p.m. I watched it as its jet-bead eyes opened and closed, its feathers fluffing up as it settled in my hands. I had an image in my mind of the other birds, the dead ones, thousands of them in the black bin-liners, feathers stuck together with their own blood and the blood of the other birds. Beady eyes open forever to the darkness.

I was even more uneasy that night. Below, on the street, the light from Petra’s living room shone on the cobblestone street. There were shadows on the stones, the movement of people within. Yes, one was Petra’s – long and slim, hair up. The other was Aliki’s – shorter and broader – coming to the window intermittently to stand silently, no doubt, beside her mother. Then, on one occasion, there was a third, softer, rounder – standing alone. This must have been Nisha. But I could hardly go and check. I rang her, and once again it went straight to voicemail. I could think of no good reason to knock on their door at this hour. But I kept thinking – She’ll be back. Unless she went back to Sri Lanka . . . No, I was sure that Nisha would knock on the back door at eleven, like she always did, and the memory of waiting for her would fade into the past and be forgotten.

Mrs Hadjikyriacou was outside again, talking nonsense to the cats. I couldn’t hear was she was saying, though – the bouzouki wasn’t playing that night; instead, a girl was singing in another language, and the foreign words flew in their hundreds over the streets and consumed them. I’d never seen her before, and she was beautiful: dark, with dark eyes. Her right hand was smaller and seemed damaged in some way, perhaps a birth defect. It remained scrunched up, close to her breast. Her left hand, however, danced as she sang, rose and fell with the mesmerising tone of her voice, her fingers tapping the air as if she was playing an invisible instrument. Her voice was extraordinary, clear as glass. On the tables around her, the men, many of whom had once been officers in the military, who probably had medals and flashbacks locked away somewhere, knocked back shots of ouzo, sucked snails with their gums, laughed – and ignored her. She was merely background noise.

I saw Yiakoumi come out of his shop. He sat down on a wicker chair to drink coffee and hear the music. The clocks behind him were lit up – it was 10.30 p.m.

I sat there holding the bird, listening to the music, waiting for the next half hour. But Nisha didn’t come.

*

At 5 a.m. I was awakened by the sound of my iPad ringing. I jumped up to answer it, thinking it was Nisha, but the name that was flashing brightly on the screen was Kumari. I stood and watched it for a while not knowing what to do. What would I say to her?