Hello to you,
The plaintive cry faded as I continued walking. The bird didn't follow me. Once I was out of earshot, the innocent encounter slipped my mind. I left Stockholm, I left Sweden, I came to Edinburgh. In Scotland, a great many miles away. En route, I met an Iranian-Swedish woman who, with only a little effort, spoke English. She had lost her job of 16 years to a slowing economy, and needed a sympathetic ear. I was born with two incredibly large ears, I am sympathetic sometimes and had a seat in her row. She thought I was older than I am. I knew that I was not, but did not correct her. I said goodbye to her when I caught my connecting flight, during which I slept dreamlessly.
I walked between the bus stop and my apartment, wondering how old I could pass for if I spoke with unblinking confidence.
"I am 33." That might work. Especially if unshaven for several days.
"I am 41." A stretch, but if my conversational companion was drunk enough, perhaps.
I had a small yellow backpack draped over my shoulders with everything I needed for the five day trip. I travel light. Unpacking was easy, and so was resuming routine, which I did. Quickly, and for several days.
A few nights later, my wanderings with drunken friends took me to a location whose name I will conceal to protect its reputation, but to which I have travelled before. I mention this incident for two reasons. The first: to mark down, in some form, the words that, guided by sweet Chance's loving hand, drifted into my ear that night. Upon my trip to the restroom of this establishment, I was confronted with a large, jovial Jamaican man. This man was not a patron of the restroom; he was a porter. When the time came for me to wash my hands, I stepped lightly to the sink at which he stood. There was not much space, and I had to actively avoid his swinging bulk by dipping to one side or the other. He punched the faucet on with a practiced flair and exclaimed, "Come on! Wash your hands." These words he spoke jovially, eyes half-closed above a large smile. Then, he began to sing. A lighthearted, almost-mumbled, bouncing refrain. His accent thickened his words in the air, and by the time they reached my untrained ear they were an unintelligible syrup. As I ran my hands under the water, and as he commenced the third repetition of his entreaty, he meted out my quota of liquid soap. And finally, the identity, meaning, and futility of his words sloughed the last drop of accent and sparkled clearly in my ear. I did not mishear. "Wash your hands. Freshen up. Freshen up with pussy juice." Pussy is slang for the female genitalia. I doubt its juice is sanitary. I didn't want to freshen up that way, so I dried my hands and declined his offer of a spray of cologne. After placing a twenty-pence piece on the tray of assorted coins that he showed to me, I left the restroom. Is this a common practice? Is it an enticing offer? Is he a strange and insane man? The second reason I relate this story: to give a sense of the distance my mind was from swedish birds.
And so, when I came home for the night and stood alone at my window watching the impending sunrise, I was more startled by the bird than I might normally have been. My window ledge is not wide, it is roughly carved stone tinted green from centuries of mist and rain and wet. And suddenly, the bird was there. Perched on the thin strip between myself and the expansive volume of the city. Same black head, same white body. Unmistakeably the same. I stumbled backwards and fell onto my bed. Seated, our eyes were level. She shook, and her ruffled feathers gradually settled back to their indistinguishable smoothness. "Well. Hello," I almost whispered, having only barely regained my composure. Two minutes passed, and I calmed down. The city beyond and below was devoid of other living things, the shade of blue in the sky changed only subliminally, the clouds hovered in place. Nothing moved, and even time seemed to stop.
The bird shuddered and ruffled again, this time twisting her head to jab her beak underneath her wing, like birds do. When her head snapped back from its awkward angle, she had what looked like a feather clutched in her beak. Small, white. Ceremoniously, and with a slowness that made the movement seem unnatural, she bowed down and released it at her feet. It sat there with an unexpected weight and solidity, and I realized it wasn't a feather at all. It was a tight roll of parchment. I reached for it but hesitated, my hand stalled by disbelief and caution in midair. The bird moved her head in a deliberate bird-equivalent of a nod and stared straight at me. "You're right. Why stop now?" So I picked it up, and unrolled it.
The paper was thin, but not brittle, and contained words, written in English with a compact, steady script. Lots of words. And the first one was my name, with a comma after it, like this: 'Walter,'.
I said to the bird, "Bird. This is starting to be weird," and she responded with her unfazed stare. The stare did not let up even momentarily while I read the remainder of the letter. Only when she was sure I had finished did she move at all, and when she did it was quick. She retrieved a small metal band from somewhere beneath her feathers, set it down, turned, and plummeted off the ledge. Quickly, as if she were never there to begin with. I wasn't interested to see where she flew, so I remained seated and picked up the circlet she had left behind. Scuffed, tarnished, scratched, with the symbols SY46 stamped unevenly around its circumference, it was cold to the touch, and much lighter than it looked. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Until the tide turns,
walter