by Meir Shalev
All the while the Belgian pigeon watched the proceedings with round, unblinking eyes. First she saw the Baby drag himself inside the shed, bloodied and moaning; then she watched him cut open his trousers and expose himself and perform the same deed that the girl had in the loft. After that he had uncapped the message capsule, placed the tube inside, and closed it, all the while shaking and mumbling. Finally, she watched as the hand that had held his flesh was now extended in her direction. Her heart pounded for him under skin and flesh and feather. By this time he did not know his own body, did not feel what it was he was grasping—her or himself—but the warmth of her body imbued him with strength; his palm sensed the anticipation in her back and wing muscles just like when, in the loft of his childhood, he had taken hold of his very first pigeon.
There was a great peal of thunder. This time a shell had been fired from the cannon mounted on the armored vehicle, knocking over more stones and raising a column of dust. But the Baby was not alarmed. When Death is so close there is no longer anything to fear. Nor was the pigeon frightened; she pulled shut her thin, transparent, auxiliary set of eyelids, which humans do not possess, and prepared herself for her dispatch and strengthened herself for the climb. The Baby attached the message capsule to her leg, groped and dragged himself along the floor as though wafting across his own feebleness, until his head and shoulders and chest and hand had come outside, through the breach in the wall. He stretched out his hand, then slackened his grip, amazed that even now he could feel something of the pleasure there is in every dispatch, and something of the excitement. The pigeon took off in a hurry as if spurted from the palm of his hand.
Death, who had been waiting all the while, emitted a snort of anger when he understood that he had been duped. But the Baby did not celebrate his victory He rolled onto his side ever so slightly, unable to summon enough strength to turn over completely, in order to watch his last pigeon rise in the air. Thus he lay, half on his back and half on his side, neither groaning nor moving. From this moment forth the matter was out of his hands. From this moment forth he had to put his trust solely in her: that she would fly straight and true, that she would accomplish her mission, that she would avoid every bullet and arrow and stone, that she would neither become prey nor be tempted, that she would not stop to eat or drink or rest, that she would understand what was contained in the capsule, the likes of which had never before been sent— that is what Dr. Laufer would soon say—throughout the history of homing pigeons worldwide, from its inception until this very day.
Cold gushed from his bones and inundated his flesh. His heart grew tranquil. Am I imagining all this or am I truly feeling it? He gathered his battle dress around himself, covered his loins, and crossed his arms over his chest, and thus, with open eyes, watched the pigeon fly, at first light-colored as she distanced herself, then darker as she ascended, with her soft, puffed breast and strong wings, so beautiful that he craved nothing more than to rise toward her, to hold and kiss her before he died. But he was sprawled on the ground below and she was climbing to the heavens above. Silence prevailed all around him and within, the only sound the rhythmic tap of her wings as they grew distant.
“Homeward,” he said to her. “Rise, distance yourself, for there is nothing to see or do here anymore. Do not turn your head, do not look back. Do not fear Death; I am holding on tightly to him. Rise. Rise on high, to the safe, the illuminated, the peaceful, and onward to the distant, to the one who awaits, to the Girl. Fly quickly to those eyes on the watch for her beloved.”
The pigeon ascended rapidly Above the flames, above the smoke, above the gunshots, above the shouts, to the sky blue, the silence. Homeward. To her. Cross the great sea of air that has no borders or sounds but for the whistling of the wind in your feathers and the pulsing of your blood and the shouting of my words on your leg.
2
THAT DAY was a typical spring morning in Jerusalem, cool and clear. Lemon trees and jasmine bushes were blooming in the gardens bordering the monastery, changing guard with the evening primrose. The fighters’ eyes abandoned their scopes and their fingers the triggers and for a moment everyone looked only at the pigeon. At first she darkened against the light sky and then grew small against the hugeness of the heavens. The flapping of her wings fell silent, and she turned blue-gray until she melted into the blue-gray sky After the silence, the noise of gunfire and shouting was renewed, the war resumed.
A breeze was blowing. On the slope of the hill, between the edge of the grass and the swings of today, lay the Baby’s body, the upper half outside the shed, the lower half within, his body weight depleted by the dripping semen and the draining blood. As he lay thus, partly on his side and partly on his back, he discovered that this gentle wind would suffice. Lightweight and feeble, at first he was jostled about by the breeze like the seed of a ragwort, then he was caught up in it like a feather, and finally he grew stronger, rose into the air, and soared.
In spite of his explicit request and instructions, the pigeon did look back, and seeing that he was gliding along behind her put her mind at ease. Without completing the customary circle in the air that homing pigeons make before establishing their precise direction, without the slightest hesitation, and with the speed and accuracy of an arrow, she headed straight for home. The desert and mountains are behind her, the sea ahead, and a Baby is flying in her wake, a young man in battle dress with torn trousers and dirt on his head. His body is sour with blood but his eyes are open and they see: here is the pigeon and here is the city; there in the distance are yellow and blue strips of sea and sand and down below a village and an orchard, a hill and a ravine. Here is a silvering grove of olive trees and a farmer driving a mule slowly along a path, and there a herd of goats spilling down a slope. Rocks are strewn about a riverbed that had been doused with rainwater the day before, so that now pools of water wink and shine at him from below The Baby grew excited: here are the Soreq Creek and Mount Castel and Kiryat Anavim. Here are the cowshed, the dining hall, the tent camp of the Palmach. And here, in the valley, the graveyard. Two of his comrades were laboring there, brandishing pickaxes and hoes. The sound of metal on rock reached him on high, so clear and familiar in the cool air. He heard and saw and understood: it was his own grave they were digging.
And here is the pigeon loft he built with that carping dandy of a carpenter. Here is his comrade the poultry farmer who replaced him, opening the doors, and here are his pigeons returning from their morning flight. The white flag has been lowered, the blue one flying now, calling the birds home. The Baby was struck with the fear that perhaps his pigeon, too, would land, but she did not even lower her gaze or slow her wings. She continued her flight—onward, onward—in the only direction the compass of her species shows.
Homeward. Her wings did not stop plying the air, her eyes did not stop searching out and identifying, her heart did not stop pushing and pumping. Above the crooked byways of those who dare not take the straight path. Above the footprints of those incapable of flight. Above the ancient columbaries long since abandoned by their residents. Above the pigeon lofts and the clefts of the rocks that served as their shelters. Above this land-in-miniature where pigeons soar unimpeded through its skies and humans fail upon its stones and fall to earth and return to dust. Homeward. The loft and the womb summon and motion to her, the tiny oars in the semen press upon her from behind.
Odysseus of the Feathered Creatures —and more. Nothing slows her down or makes her land or throws her off course. Not Circe, not Calypso, not the Cyclops. Not the hawk that suddenly swooped, which she dodged by darting and diving. Not the granary, not the seeds that lie forgotten on the threshing floors. Not the laughing whirlpool that invited her to enjoy herself by the cliffs at the entrance to the ravine. Not the tempting waters of a stream: Descend yonati tamati, my un-defiled dove of innocence, come bathe yourself and drink.
As for the Baby at times he flew behind her and at times he glided effortlessly alongside her. And sometimes to amuse himself h
e chanted to the rhythm of her wings: I am dead, I am back, I am flying, I am alive. He had already grown accustomed to the height, was even enjoying it, and flew upside down and climbed and dived. His ears could hear the beating of her wings and the wind whistling between her pinions and the stifled cries of joy and terror from inside the capsule attached to her leg. His nose smelled the sea of air, his eyes watched the land pass by beneath him; how small it is during our lives, he reflected, and how large when we are dead: barren, terraced hills, fields fighting for their lives with a final uprising of green. Yellow flags of victory, spring in retreat.
The hills shrank and grew round, the hillocks flattened. The pigeon flew over a town, caught sight of a white tower standing erect there, recalled that she had seen it in the past, and knew that home was nearby From this point forward the land began dressing itself more ornately, in wide, man-made garments: the light green of vineyards, the dark green of citrus groves. The air grew warmer and the scent of the blossoms reached the Baby as a final act of grace, as proof: even the dead may rejoice, even they take pleasure, even they remember and are grateful. Here is the golden strip of sand dunes and the blue sea and, in the middle, Tel Aviv How beautiful she is, he thought: blue and pink and gold. Waves and roofs and sand. Her eyes, her skin, her hair.
All at once the pigeon dived, the Baby scrambling to keep up, and already the sandstone hillock stood out beneath them. The sycamore trees around the edges, the pool of water at the top, the small fenced-in zoo clinging to the flank of the slope. The pigeon swooped down to the loft while the Baby stopped, hovering and watching from afar: he saw the animal cages, and the animals themselves, the ones sleeping and dreaming, the ones awake and alert, the giant turtles, the waterfowl pool, saw too the lions and the bear, and then her, his beloved, rushing outside the loft, her hand raised, her face hope and joy.
The pigeon alighted on the landing board of the loft and pushed her way inside through the trap door. The Girl welcomed her gently politely, proffering fresh water and grains of hashish. She stroked the bird, removed the message holder from her leg. The Baby watched her pull out the tube and observe it, open it, bring it to her nose. Her mouth dropped open, his name shot out at him. Her shout rent the air. No and no and no and no. But his ears were already deaf He was dead.
Chapter Eighteen
1
THAT MORNING the Girl had requested the simpler jobs: checking the feed bags, cleaning the troughs, scraping clean the floor of the pigeon loft. If a heart heavy with worry is no good for breeding, then it is certainly no good for dispatching pigeons or teaching the young birds, either. In such a state one can even err in filling out the breeding cards.
She was carrying out her chores meticulously and in silence, taking comfort in the routine, when suddenly she heard the rustle of wings right inside her head; so powerful was it that all the zoo animals fell silent and, like her, tilted an ear and an eye and stood frozen, each and every animal in its place. No monkey chattered, no lion roared, no buck grew fearful, and the Girl turned around, rushed outside, and raised her hand and her gaze.
The pigeon descended toward her with such velocity that it seemed to her as though the heavens were parting. For a moment she did not know whether she was looking upon a spirit or a body, a flesh-and-blood pigeon or merely its likeness, but in such cases the body feels and knows and understands before the mind and the senses, and instead of descending from one’s head, joy rises from beneath the breast. The pigeon she had given him had returned; he had sent it to her. He is alive. Everything is in order.
The pigeon alighted on the landing board at the southeastern entrance to the loft, pushed open the bars of the trap door, entered the compartment, and stood motionless. The Girl spread and parted the pigeon’s tail feathers, her eyes searching for the quills, and when she did not find them she turned to releasing the message capsule attached to the bird’s leg.
A surprise. Inside the capsule there was no message, only a corked glass tube. The Girl held it up to the light and saw that there was no note here either, just a few drops of murky liquid. She removed the cork, sniffed the contents, and the happiness of the pigeon’s return vanished in the face of astonishment; already her body had comprehended and had turned to stone, her mouth dropped open and shouted, the name shrieked, blasted.
Her knees shook, but her concern for the contents of the tube strengthened her hand. Don’t drop it! Don’t fall! Mourning and death were postponed; now it was necessary to gather one’s wits. Don’t give up! She returned the cork to the tube, wrapped it in cotton wool, slipped the tube into the pocket of her shirt, and pressed it close to her body with her hand. That was how she left the pigeon loft, running toward Dr. Laufer’s tiny quarters next to the zoo shed.
“What happened?” the storeroom attendant asked her. “I’ve never seen you like this. Careful, please, you’re going to break something. What’s with you?”
“A syringe … I need a syringe,” the Girl stuttered. Her hands were tugging at drawers, rifling through them, knocking things over, when suddenly she screamed, “I need a syringe and I need a spoon! Don’t you understand? You’re a woman just like I am! Don’t you understand what it means when a woman needs a syringe and a spoon?!”
“No, I don’t, but if that’s what you need so badly all of a sudden then here, here’s a spoon. And over here’s a syringe,” the attendant said, lifting the lid of a metal container on the shelf. “Take it, just sterilized, right here under your nose. What are you shouting for? And what does being a woman have to do with anything? What size needle do you need?”
“No needle, only the syringe … Hurry! It’s urgent!” The Girl swiped the syringe from the attendant’s hand and the spoon from the table and raced out the storeroom.
The attendant called after her: “I’ve heard of girls who need chocolate right away or a man right away or poetry right away, but a syringe with no needle, and a spoon?”
The Girl did not hear this little pearl of wisdom; she was rushing back to the loft, where she burst in—against all the rules and conventions. She spread an army blanket on the floor and placed a small feed-bag on top of it. She steadied herself with a deep breath and opened the door, releasing a large flock of surprised birds. They burst out and took off for the skies above the zoo, but they did not fly away or rise too high, merely wheeled in wide circles. With four swift tugs she pulled the cords from around the curtains so that heavy flaps of cloth fell across the windows and darkness rose from the floor. She took the tube in hand and removed the cork. As she tapped her finger gently on the side, the Baby’s semen dribbled onto the spoon. The Girl drew back the piston, sucking it into the syringe. How much was there? Not more than a few drops.
She stripped off her clothes and lay flat on her back on the blanket, thinking how her last time with him they had been on this blanket, how she had kissed him, hugged him, touched and caressed him, how happy it had made her to bring him such pleasure, and now she was sorry she had not demanded to have intercourse with him, sorry for the semen spilled in her hand. Enough crying! She pulled the small feedbag under her loins and spread her thighs wide. She took the syringe in her right hand, brought the fingers of her left hand to her mouth and moistened them, then thrust them into herself Again and again she wet her fingers, lubricating herself generously all around and deep inside. Then she held her breath, plunged the entire length of the syringe in, and pressed the piston.
She pressed her thighs together, drew her knees up to her chest, and wrapped both arms around them. There was nothing more she could do, nothing but trust her body and his seed, that it would find its way She lay that way her eyes shut, listening to the flux of the semen— down, down, down—as it skirred and dived inside her.
That’s right, she said in her heart, travel downward, homeward, in a straight line. A thousand tiny wings were plying her, floating over the depths of her body Down, lower, to the dark, the safe, deeper inside, inside, inside, to the warm, the living, the encompassing and
the moist, we have done our part, now do yours. Push onward, do not look back.
And the semen, as if heeding her voice, hastened and plunged. Homeward. From the skies of death to the depths of life, from the outside chill to the inner warmth, from the whistling of sun-drenched flight to the night-darkened silence of the abyss.
2
AFTER A FEW MINUTES passed the Girl parted her eyelids and saw that the pigeon had not fled the pigeon loft with her fellow birds but was standing near her head. They looked at each other, the Girl’s eyes moist, the pigeon’s round and compassionate, her head cocked in the manner of pigeons when they wish to see better.
“Where did you come from?” the Girl asked.
Pigeons have no way of indicating directions or places; creatures whose eyes are telescopes and whose beaks are compasses and whose longing is a map have no need for such things. Thus, the pigeon’s answer was vague, if more poetic than expected and more florid than necessary
“From the summit of the hill,” she pronounced. “From the noise and fire whence the Baby dispatched me ere his death.”
“How long did it take you?”
“Forty minutes.”
“And the sun?”
“At my back for the length of the journey”
“Forty minutes from the southeast,” the Girl said. “You came from Jerusalem.”
“So be it,” cooed the pigeon. “It is all the same to us pigeons whence we come, so long as we are bound for home.” And, feeling important, she added, “I was his last pigeon. I am the last pigeon the Baby dispatched.”