Songbirds(5)

I decided to head upstairs and start cleaning the birds. I sat on a stool in the spare room and, one by one, I plucked out their feathers and threw the birds into a large basin. This was a task that took some time, and one that I never looked forward to. It was tedious work I did automatically, and left my hands covered in feathers and sticky blood. Once this task was complete, I would soak them in water or pickle them in vinegar, place them in various sized containers depending on the order, and take them out to restaurants, hotels and venues around the island.

As I held one of the birds in my left hand, about to pluck its feathers with my right, I felt an unexpected vibration on my palm. I paused and looked down and noticed that the soft brown feathers on the bird’s chest rose; its right wing twitched. It suddenly felt heavy on my palm, as if I was holding a paperweight, and the vibration seemed to travel through me – along my arteries, up my arm, until I felt a terrible sensation, a deep tremble in my chest.

I felt nauseous. I dropped the bird onto the table and shifted on the stool, taking long, deep breaths. The bird lay there, breathing, its chest rising and falling more visibly now.

I was four or five years old, walking with my dad in the wild fields of the mountains. He stopped to pick some hawthorn berries. On the ground something bright caught my eye: a yellow wagtail. Even at this age, I knew the names of some of the bird species, migratory and native, because my grandfather had taught me. I loved the birds. I watched them building their lives high up in the trees and sky. I was desperate to catch them, hold them in my hands, to look closely at their feathers and decipher their amazing colours.

Here was my opportunity! This yellow wagtail was motionless amongst the brambles. Even as I approached, it didn’t move. I picked it up and nestled it in my palms – it was so dead that it was dry. I examined it: its small, silver-grey bill, brown tail and brown primary feathers; while its chin and breast, belly and under-feathers were the brightest yellow I’d ever seen. Its crown, shoulder and back were a darker yellow, greyish in tone. I examined its eyeline and eyestripe, its open blank eyes, its wing-bars and lores, its twiglike feet.

I imagined I was holding gold. In my hands I held pure gold.

*

I lived simply and saved money so that I could stop the poaching. All my neighbours thought that I made a living picking and selling wild asparagus and mushrooms, wild greens, artichokes and snails – depending on the season. I mean, of course, that kind of foraging was my day job and provided pocket money. But I would never have been able to build a future for myself relying on the measly income of selling vegetables and snails. Not after what had happened. It was a risk I couldn’t take.

I hated lying to Nisha. I’d managed to keep the poaching a secret for so long: it wasn’t difficult – when I came back with bulging bin bags, people would assume I’d collected other things from the forest. People didn’t question much around here, and many of the houses were empty because so few wanted to live so close to the Green Line. It reminded them of the war, of division, of abandoned homes and lost lives. This isn’t something one wants to be reminded of on a daily basis.

I had my reasons for choosing to rent a flat there. It was reasonably quiet, most of the residents were old, and I knew I could get away with more. And besides, I enjoyed sitting on the balcony in the evening, listening to the bouzouki from Theo’s restaurant, and watching the old men eating, drinking and playing cards. I joined them sometimes, but mostly I kept my distance. In this part of old Nicosia there were brothel-type bars, and when the men finished eating and drinking at the restaurant, they usually made their way to them.

There was one such bar at the end of our street, called Maria’s. Its windows were frosted, and through the old wooden door wafted the heavy scent of sweat mingled with cigarette smoke and old beer. The barmaid, in tight black clothing, served sliced apples and peanuts, olives and hummus. I have been there twice, on both occasions to meet Seraphim.

I watched the bird on the counter now, the way its beak opened and closed, the way its matted feathers twitched. I checked its neck and saw that the wound I had made wasn’t that deep. It looked up at me, straight into my eyes, and seemed to be saying, ‘You sick prick, I can see you.’

I put some water on my finger and brought it to its beak. At first it didn’t drink but I kept my hand there for a while, and, after a few minutes, it dipped its bill into the droplet of water and tilted its head to swallow it. I decided to line a small container with a clean towel and I put the bird in there to rest. I sat there and watched it for a while. It was suspicious of me, kept giving me that look.

Some time later, I had filled a whole bin-liner with feathers. The little bird was lying still in the container, breathing steadily. The naked birds were piled up in the basin by my side.

I thought you were a different person, Nisha had said.

I put some water in the basin, using a hose, and left the birds in there for a while to soak. Then, I dipped my finger into a glass of water and brought it to the little bird’s beak again. This time, it dropped its bill immediately into the water and tilted its head so that it could swallow. It seemed to be treating me less like a killer and this was reassuring. I did it a few more times until it didn’t want any more.

I thought you were a different person.

*

After I had finished cleaning the birds, I made myself some supper and sat on the balcony, eagerly awaiting Nisha’s knock at the door. Most evenings, she would wait for Petra to go to bed before sneaking out into the garden. The staircase was on the far left, behind a large fig tree, so Petra wasn’t able to see it from her window. Nisha didn’t want Petra to know. She wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend. Nisha would slip out at around 11 p.m., unnoticed. She would stay with me for a few hours – we would talk for a while and make love and fall asleep. Then her alarm would go off at 4 a.m., and she would unfurl herself from my arms, go out into the garden and sit in the boat while the sun rose. I was never sure why she didn’t just go straight to her room, but the time she spent alone in the old fishing boat seemed to be important, and I didn’t question it. I would turn off the light and go back to sleep for a few hours.