Birds Without Wings

by Louis de Bernières

  It was when we were marching north to face the British, just after the city burned, that the shame suddenly descended on me. My face filled up with blood and my ears started to burn, and the misery came into my heart like a heated knife, and this is why I didn’t marry Philothei the moment I came home after the war, and delayed it, and it was because she was a woman, and after my experience I couldn’t perceive her in the same way as when I was pure.

  I am Ibrahim the Mad, who used to be called Ibrahim the Goatherd, and I have an excuse, and there is a little tiny man who is not mad, who hides in one corner of my head.

  CHAPTER 94

  Drosoula Remembers the Voyage into Exile

  Gerasimos and I were lucky in one way. There was an El Saleeb wind that did not happen very often. It used to blow for maybe two or three days in the late summer, and on this occasion it wasn’t too violent. We arrived in the port of Rhodes much quicker than I expected.

  I had wanted to bury the body of my friend there, the one I told you about. I don’t know now why we didn’t bury her on the beach where she fell. Maybe we were anxious to get away before we were discovered. Maybe I was too upset to part with her straight away. I said to Gerasimos, “Help me get her into the boat,” and that’s what we did, without even arguing about it. It was only after a few hours that we started thinking about what to do with her.

  I didn’t want to drop the body into the sea because it might float about and be eaten by fishes, but Gerasimos said that if we arrived in port with a dead body in the boat, we would surely get arrested on suspicion of murder. That is why we had to decide to put the body into the sea after all. I took the crucifix from around my neck and placed it round hers, and we crossed ourselves and tried to think of prayers, and then we tipped her gently over the side. She floated for a while, but then the weight of the water in her clothes made the body sink, thank God. Her beautiful black hair floated behind her in the water as she sank, and I thought, “What use is being beautiful now?” and an emptiness came over me that has never been filled. Saying farewell to Philothei and watching her slowly sinking out of sight in the blue water was like saying goodbye to Anatolia and to the life that I would have had there, and these farewells always leave you empty. I wonder where Philothei washed up. My clothes had her bloodstains on them until I was able to obtain new ones.

  I was very sick, both with grief and because of the sea, but my little boy Mandras wasn’t too bad. Sometimes I got very cold even though the weather wasn’t too severe. I was sunburned as well. I hated having to go over the side, if you know what I mean, even when Gerasimos was averting his gaze. The worst thing was when we were caught out at sea at night. Believe me, I know what terror is, and I know what it is to be caught up by the whims of God.

  I learned things about my husband. He had never sailed across open water before. A sensible fisherman stays close to the rocks around the coast, where all the fish are. A sensible fisherman always keeps land in sight. What I learned about my husband was that he had fantastic courage and fantastic wisdom. His courage was not the foolish kind of a young and silly man. It was the courage of a man who looks danger in the face, and forces himself not to flinch. He had the calmness of a condemned man who is reconciled. My love for him increased because of those voyages, and it was a love that I wouldn’t have had otherwise. I am pleased that I experienced that kind of love. My husband sailed successfully even though he was ignorant. He never sailed if there was the slightest sign of a storm and heavy seas, because he had all our lives to consider. He made a prayer to the Panagia, promising that if we arrived safely in Cephalonia, he would silverplate an icon in her honour, and this is what he eventually did, once he had earned enough money to do it. At some point the Virgin stopped watching over him, though, because a few years after we arrived he was drowned in a sudden squall between here and Zante. After that I lost my respect for the Panagia, God help me. In my opinion Gerasimos should have learned to swim, but all the sailors and fishermen say that you shouldn’t, because it’s better to drown quickly than to struggle for hours in a state of desperation. In my opinion he should have learned to swim, and then he could have swum ashore, like that English sailor from the submarine that sank during the war.

  I remember everything about those travels, which lasted for many months. I discovered that there are two kinds of people: those who are thoughtless, and those who have hearts. The thoughtless ones call you a filthy Turk, and spit at you, and tell you to go to the devil, and say “Piss off back to Turkey,” and the heartful ones give you coins and bread, and offer you work, and make a fuss of your little boy, and offer you clothes they have finished with, because they pity your rags.

  We stayed in Rhodes for about a week, because there were people there who spoke Turkish, and could tell us what to do next. In those days the Italians were in charge, just as they had been for a while back home, and just as they were here in the first years of the war. I feel familiar with Italians. God knows, they don’t ever manage to stay long, but they aren’t too bad, unlike some I could mention. Anyway, we harboured at a little place called Mandraki, which had two nice little statues of a fawn and a deer on top of a column at each side of the harbour. I loved those statues. I had never seen a complete statue before, because at home all ours were very old, and they were all broken and lying about. We had to sleep in the boat under the sailcloth, because some people were unkind to those who slept in doorways. I got used to it. I felt an affinity to the port of Mandraki because it was like “little Mandras” and when my son was a small boy I often called him Mandraki from that time on.

  Then we sailed to Halki, which was not too far. I liked it, but there was almost nothing there. There was only one village, called Nimborio. It also had Italians, who weren’t too bad. That’s all I remember about it. The houses were pretty.

  After that, we sailed to Tilos, where there were one or two Italians, but everyone else was a peasant. In Livadia we made repairs to the boat with the help of a fisherman who could understand us. We walked all the way to the Monastery of Pantaleimon so that we could make homage to the saint, and ask for help on the next part of our voyage. We did this on every island, but sometimes the monks were hostile and called us filthy Turks. You should expect better of monks, in my opinion.

  We went to Astypalaia next. It was a long voyage, and we were nearly overturned in the bow-wave of a great warship that came too close without caring about us, or perhaps without seeing us at all. The nice thing about Astypalaia was seeing the town all gleaming white on the hill, and the windmills all whirling away. We went and prayed in the Monastery of Our Lady Fevariotissa. We stayed there all winter, because the weather became too rough, and Gerasimos pulled the boat up on to the beach and caught fish with a handline. A widow took pity on us, and we slept under her table instead of out in the boat. My husband carved her an eagle out of driftwood, and gave it to her when we left, as a sign of our gratitude. There were Italians there as well.

  In the spring we meant to go to Amorgos, the place that someone wrote that famous poem about, but something went wrong with the wind or the currents or something, and we went to Anafi instead. It was a mistake, but it didn’t matter very much. We were lucky it happened to be in the way, as a matter of fact, or God knows where we would have ended up. We prayed in the Monastery of Our Lady Kalamiotissa. We were surprised because there weren’t any Italians. After that we went to Santorini, which wasn’t far at all. I was becoming a very excellent sailor, and Mandras was healthier than I expected.

  In the middle of the harbour at Santorini was a volcano, and we thought it was mad to stay there. We thought that this was the reason that there were no Italians there, but the Greeks were mad enough, that’s for sure. We prayed to St. Irene, and left as soon as the wind blew well. We unintentionally went straight past Thirasia and landed in Sikinos, which turned out to have a harbour in a very sensible place where the meltem wind couldn’t batter it. We prayed to the Panagia Zoodochos Pigi, and when it was fine we wen
t on to Folegandros. I think it was Folegandros. It was all so clear once, but now my memory plays tricks. I am sure it was Folegandros. That was where I was ill for a while, and Gerasimos helped someone build a house, and Mandras was scratched by a cat.

  After that it was Milos, and after that we had the worst voyage of all, because we wanted to go to Malea, but we went off course, and we were lucky to arrive in Kythera, which was a place I liked so much that I wanted to stay. They say that Aphrodite was born there, whatever the Cypriots think. Anyway, Gerasimos liked Kythera too, but he was determined to go to Cephalonia because of the family. In Kythera there was a little port with a great castle at the top of the hill, and we were impressed because St. John had begun to write a book up in a hole in the cliff, so it was a very holy place. There was an icon of the Black Virgin, and we went to see it. It was a very long walk indeed, but the place was beautiful. The monastery nestled in a valley of oleander.

  After that it was just a question of sailing along the coast and stopping wherever we could, to ask the way, and to take water and food on to the boat. Gerasimos always worked when we needed money, and so did I. By this time even little Mandras was beginning to pick up words of Greek, and I knew the words for most of the essential things. The last place we stopped was Zante, which was as pretty as Kythera, and I could have stayed there too, if only Gerasimos had agreed. It was on Zante that the people sang cantadas, which were the most beautiful songs I have ever heard, and the old men would sing them at the table after eating, and they would play accordions and guitars and mandolins. I was in Zante when I first heard cantadas, and I realised properly that there was after all something beautiful and joyful about the human soul. When Antonio arrived here with his mandolin during the war, it couldn’t help but remind me of happy days in Zante. We went to see the relic of St. Dionysus, and promised to call our next son Dionysus if we got to Cephalonia. The people on Zante told us to watch out for Cephalonians. They said, “They think they’re eggheads, but actually they’re mad.”

  Well, we did arrive, as you can see, and the first thing we did was tie up the boat in Argostoli harbour, and go straight to the monastery and pay our respects to St. Gerasimos, who watches over the mad, and must surely have been watching over us. That was another long walk, and in those days the roads were even worse than they are now. We had to go over English Bridge and then find our way through the hills. My husband was very moved to see the body of the saint for whom he and his grandfather were named, and the nuns let him kiss the saint’s embroidered slipper. He said to me, “We are home at last,” and when we went outside we embraced, even though it was in public and there were some nuns.

  We were very thin, and weary, and we had been travelling for almost a year, on and off. It was the only time in my life that I was thin, and it wasn’t long before I was fat again. When I think about it, it is a miracle that we even got as far as Rhodes. In Argostoli harbour the boat practically had to be reconstructed. Of course, the irony is that the Drapanitikos family thought we were just dirty Turks. They knew that someone called Gerasimos had been a sailor and had disappeared, but apparently he had been a black sheep anyway. They’d never heard of us, and didn’t want to have anything to do with us. We took the name “Drapanitikos” anyway, and maybe one day the rest of the family will think me respectable enough to acknowledge, not that there’s any sign of it after all these years. Then Gerasimos drowned in the sea between here and Zante, before we could even have a son and call him Dionysus. After all that sailing and praying! After plating that icon at such expense! Just think of it! Still, before he died, Gerasimos got the nickname “Odysseus” from the other fishermen, and he was very proud of that. He was more of a sailor than all of them put together. He was greatly admired for sailing such a little fishing boat all the way from Turkey. I think that’s why we were so easily accepted, even though we spoke Turkish to each other, and Gerasimos liked to wear a turban when he was out at sea, instead of a hat.

  Did I ever tell that after all this time I sometimes still dream in Turkish?

  CHAPTER 95

  The Wounding of Karatavuk

  It was not until the following spring that Mehmetçik reappeared in the area. Late at night he scratched at the door of the family house, and whined like a dog. This had been for very many years the agreed signal, so that the family would know that it was him. If there was anyone inappropriate in the house, all his father had to do was open the shutter and call out, “Get lost, stupid dog, go home!”

  On this occasion the door was opened by a wall-eyed middle-aged man with an enormous moustache, wearing curious night attire and bearing an olive-oil lamp in one hand, who had plainly been expecting his visitor to be a dog, and had been preparing to give it an indignant but cursory kick.

  By the light of the dim little lamp, he and Mehmetçik looked at one another in surprise and perplexity. “Who are you?” asked Mehmetçik, unable to think of anything else to say.

  The man said something quite incomprehensible, and held up both hands, as if surrendering. He was beginning to tremble. It looked most odd because he still held the lamp in one uplifted hand. In a moment a thin woman who must have been his wife appeared at his side. She gasped at the sight of him, put her hands to her mouth in fear and ran back into the house.

  Mehmetçik’s puzzlement as to their behaviour vanished suddenly, as he realised that what they were seeing was, to all intents and purposes, a bandit. Over his shoulders he was wearing two bandoliers full of cartridges. In his sash was a pistol and a yataghan. On his head was a filthy old turban. His boots were holed at the toe and scuffed, and his shalwar were much misshapen by heavy rips that had been clumsily repaired by someone who plainly did not know how to sew. His sunburned and weather-beaten face was obscured by a week’s stubble, and not a little of the filth of travel. In his left hand he carried a carbine.

  Confused, Mehmetçik asked, “Where is my father?”

  The man said something else that was incomprehensible, and began, with his free hand, to fumble in his sash. For a moment Mehmetçik thought that he might be searching for a weapon, but after a few moments he produced a small drawstring leather purse that he held out to Mehmetçik, his hand shaking. “He goes to bed wearing a sash with his purse in it,” thought Mehmetçik, wonderingly.

  “I have not come here to steal,” he said. “I don’t want your purse. Where is my family?” The frightened man held the purse out to him with an imploring look, as if begging him to take it and be gone. Mehmetçik shook his head, and left. As he ascended through the town to the ancient tombs above and behind it, guided by his memory and what little light there was from the stars, he was assailed by deeply troubling thoughts. “Surely I can’t be mistaken about the house? Have they gone, and not told me? Where can they be?” Concerned not to disturb the Dog, should he still be living, Mehmetçik settled in an empty house-tomb far enough away from the one habitually frequented by the former. He lay down on a low stone shelf intended anciently for a rich man’s corpse, and resigned himself to a long and cold night. He had experienced many such nights during his years as an outlaw, and had even learned to sleep in the open in storms of rain. He would wake up aching all over, but nonetheless he slept. He listened to the scuffling of small nocturnal animals, and then a bulbul began to sing. As he listened to the liquid notes cascading into the night, he remembered how, in the old days, people used to be driven mad with insomnia by the night’s massed choristers. On account of the birdsong, he suddenly had a good idea about what to do on the morrow, and at that point exhaustion overtook him. He had been trudging all day on vertiginous goat paths through the mountains, and now he fell into a turbulent sleep.

  He awoke shortly after dawn, and flexed and stretched his muscles in order to free them up. He experienced a moment of doubt as to why he was inside a tomb, but then remembered the events of the night before, and sat up quickly. Hardened by frequent necessity, he did not think of breakfast. These days food came in his direction whenever a cap
ricious fate looked upon him kindly, and not otherwise.

  Cautiously he put his head out of the door of the house-tomb, and looked about. He regretted, not for the first time, the vanity that caused him always to wear a red shirt. He had always done so, ever since he and his friend Karatavuk had whimsically adopted the identity of birds in their childhood. It had been something intrinsically innocent. Now that he had been an outlaw and a brigand for years, however, the red shirt had become a trademark that he could not abandon. To do so would have been somehow to diminish his status, to allow his own legend to tarnish. It had become very simply a question of manly pride. It was amazing to him that, after all these years of being a conspicuous target in any shoot-out that might occur, he had still only ever been wounded but slightly, and sometimes he cursed inwardly that the position he held among his men prevented him from wearing sober colours, like any other sensible renegade in everyday need of camouflage.

  Ducking down, he hurriedly made his way higher up the slope, picking his way through the maquis, with the intention of surveying the town. After the surprise of the previous night, it was almost as if he wished to reassure himself that the town was really his. From behind a large white boulder he tried to discern what was going on below, and he saw that there was very little activity, considering that it was past dawn, and people ought to be about the business of the early day. He decided to go higher, near the tiny white chapel that had been built centuries before as some forgotten person’s private act of piety.

  When he arrived there he saw that the door had been burst open. He went inside, and saw to his dismay that the frescoes of the apostles had been defaced. They had all had their eyes carefully scratched out, and this gave them the disquieting appearance of the newly blinded. Feeling outraged and dismal on account of the sacrilege, he went back outside, and heard the bleating of Ibrahim’s flock of goats, over by the hole in the hillside where since antique times the townspeople had quarried lime for the construction of their houses. He listened carefully, and just made out the sound of Ibrahim’s kaval. It was a thin, curiously wavering and disconnected melody. Calculating that a childhood friend like Ibrahim could surely be trusted, he made his way to the hollow by the limepit.