The Chef, the Bird and the Blessing

by Andrew Sharp

  ‘About maybe thirteen.’

  ‘Too old for a hamster or a guinea pig. We’re talking tropical fish.’

  I thought that tartan-woolled lady at the guesthouse would not permit a fish tank although she had not specifically forbidden such to my remembrance. I heard the boy speaking. ‘He wants a pet that can be a companion. Like a friend.’

  ‘We’re talking dogs. I don’t do em.’

  ‘I thank you kindly. Not to mind.’ I had come to my sense.

  He bead-eyed me hard across his dagger nose in the way of making an opinion on my good character. Reassured, of course, he locked the shop door and turned the sign to indicate that the establishment was closed.

  ‘Are you a discrete man?’

  ‘Discrete is a core principle of mine.’

  ‘You’ll be interested in exotics then. Thirteen-year olds love exotics.’

  ‘Exotics?’

  ‘Don’t blow the gaff on what you see. Follow me.’

  He signalled me to a door at the back of the shop and unlocked it with a large key. We passed into a confining and dim space smelling somehow of a public urinal. The walls and ceiling were tar-dark, but cages of wire and glass glowed under dim green and red lights.

  ‘This is my jungle.’ He beckoned me to a glass.

  I held back to see such a creature in the green light with its crocodile tail and clawsome feet. As I approached with caution, its jungle-glowing eye watched me unblinking like an evil animal spirit —although I did not believe in such things. ‘This is a lizard. We’re talking fat-tailed lizard here. Vicious, but absolutely safe as long he’s kept in his cage. Your thirteen-year-old will love him.’

  I wished to run. How could such a place exist in the modern city? He had brought danger to the city with the worst of the bush. He had brought Mr Bin’s garden to the city.

  ‘What about this beauty?’ He signalled me to look behind the next glass. ‘We’re talking a blue-necked snake here.’

  A serpent with a blunt jaw resided there in a red light like a glowing branch in a fire. A twitching tail stuck out of its mouth.

  ‘Look, it’s just eaten its mouse. Your kid will find that gross … but irresistible.’

  He moved to the next cage, but I backed away.

  ‘We’re talking a yellow-banded spider here. Huge all-seeing eyes. An incredible turn of speed! They’ve got great personality.’

  It had been an error to enter his exotic room to be faced with such mutational and murderous creatures. That place was even worse than Mr Bin’s garden.

  ‘I thank you … but on reflection I think that my boy should work and not play.’

  I passed hastily back into the shop, but my eye was captured by a small bird in a small cage high on a shelf. It sat still and alone. It cocked its head down at me and we met for just one moment.

  The shopkeeper said, ‘You can have that for free, if you want. Shouldn’t die on your kid. He could release it when he gets bored with it. We’re talking garden sparrow. They’re as common as cats here. I don’t normally have sparrows … but let’s say someone brought it in injured. Was going to feed it to a snake but this morning it perked up. What a coincidence that a fellow with a kid like yours should step into the shop right now and want it. It’s meant to be.’

  Naturally, that did not persuade me. I declined. A bird is a fowl, a variant on a chicken, and this one was so small that it would not even make a snack for a small man. Not that I would have eaten it of course. I was civilised and humane towards all animals designated as pets by whatever the prevailing culture. I excused and exited the shop as fast as was polite.

  On the edge of my bed again I listened to the traffic, a factory of droning pistons ceaselessly running. I lay down for a minute, but my limbs prodded me to move. I was not tired to sleep and the ceiling had no interest in it. I stood. It seemed, all sudden, that I desired the sound of a bird. The harmless and reassuring chirrup and tittle. The flutter of another heart in my room. I fell for a simple and natural temptation. Somewhat ashamed, I returned to Pet Paradise.

  I turned my suitcase on its side end on the floor by the basin and placed the cage on top. The adjacent window would gift the sparrow a view of the sky, grey-nothing up there notwithstanding. I lifted off the covering cloth. The sparrow flapped about in surprise.

  ‘Don’t fret. I’m like a companion for you and you’ll be a companion for me. We’ll talk to each other.’

  It sheltered tight on the floor of the cage as far from me as it could achieve and I could see its seed-sized heart trembling.

  ‘You’re safe here.’ Still it trembled. ‘I have no snakes. We both hate such things. In that respect, we’re alike. We concur on this.’

  I took my face away to give it space and it flapped to the end of its perch and stood on its pin legs, eye on me.

  ‘That’s better, little bird.’ The power-most tranquiliser is the human voice. ‘I’ll feed you. You’re lucky, I’m a chef. All I ask is that you sing for me.’

  It was unblinking at me.

  ‘I’ll be your head chef. What dishes do you like? I can cook international, but now I’ll extend myself to interspecies.’

  It remained highly attentive.

  ‘You said seeds? That’s no problem.’

  I opened the cage door with caution and took the food tray. I arranged the mixed seeds, which I had bought —at the expense of my lunch— from Mini Mart, in its tray. The dish resembled, with the eye of deep faith, a risotto of whole grain rice peppered and garnished with garlic, onion and parmesan cheese. It was not my finest creation, but was a respectable plate.

  ‘Bird, you can now dine. This is my signature dish for sparrows.’

  It stayed, watching me. It took no notice of my dish.

  ‘It’s always a big deal with sparrows.’

  Perhaps it did not want to eat in front of me, so I excused myself whilst I used the comfort station on the landing. When I returned, the dish had not been touched.

  I apologised that this was not up to scratch, footed to the Night Glow Food Locker and bought oats, raisins and ground nuts. I cleaned the food tray and arranged such. I saw a dead spider in the corner of the room. With aesthetic consideration I arranged this in the centre of the dish as if it was a sprig of rosemary.

  I excused myself again. On return I saw that the spider alone was gone. The sparrow was back on its perch and did not flap at my presence. I felt satisfaction at my discovery. The sparrow craved insects.

  I bought a small packet of Dried Bug Bird Feed and it ate hungrily. However many dried insects I offered it, it ate them. To leave me cash for feeding myself I invested in a butterfly net from a retail called Pound Shop with the intention of catching insects in the park. There were no ‘No poaching’ signs, no ‘Keep out. National Park’. I found the reason: there were no insects in the park. The only sound was that of the big bug vehicles on the roads. There was no buzzing and whirring of little wings.

  What to do? No matter, under the lights in the park at night I found the occasional moth. The beautiful tents of light were a fatal trap for the remaining insects of the night. At first I arranged said moths freshly slaughtered in my bird’s food tray, but I discovered that it liked them most when still flapping. Of course, an insect could escape through the bars, but the bird was quick and hungry. Each night I supplemented Dried Bug with live moth. As the days counted the sparrow became familiar with me and listened ever more carefully and politely to my talk. It never argued against me. It took my point of view. I hoped that one day it would show its appreciation of my dishes by singing, even a simple chirrup would do.

  I still walked the streets to move my limbs, but I was always eager to return to my room to talk to the bird, to tell it of the surety of my future destination and to promise that it could stay with me and even be upgraded when finances allowed to a high vaulted cage with sp
ace for a companion sparrow. I would purchase a fancy cosy for the cage for night-time to prevent the glare of the moonlight through the grand windows of my upcoming abode.

  I smiled to think how Mr Bin would have been unbelieving to see me with a pet. I had indeed surprised myself. I needed to understand why I was appreciating the companionship of a little fowl. It had no conversation, no laughter, no sharing of its food, no hand shaking. I concluded this: the bird was a living. All livings crave interplay with another living. We were both livings, the sparrow and I, admittedly of differing sizes, shapes, body clothing and ancestral history, but as a consequence of being livings we needed each other for serenity of the heart, even to comply with the natural bias and needs of being a living. I only craved that it would sing.

  Chapter 14

  One auspicious evening, tartan-woolled landlady knocked on the door with a hard knuckle.

  ‘Mr Tooshy?’

  ‘Yes? I’m here.’

  ‘I doon’t like being yer receptionist, but I’ve had a call from a lassie. An Ella Camlyn. She’ll visit tomorrow afternoon with her grandfather. I have her number if that’s nae alright, but yer’ll need to ring her yourself. I cannae be your telephone exchange.’

  Of course, I did not call to decline the appointment. I would be present, for sure, waiting for my VIP guests. I told the sparrow and it saw me wipe a tear from my eye to think that I had visitors to my abode, my first, and they being special persons, taking the trouble to come and see me. It did not laugh at me or side-glance me.

  And so it occurred that I found myself the very next day waiting outside the front door of the guesthouse in the flappy wind and spilling rain for the arrival of VIPs Miss Camlyn and Mr Summerberg. My heart beat with a longing note to meet guests from those previous days. How unexpected, I thought, to look back to the time when I was professionally unfulfilled and living in the barrens to now believe that those were tolerable days. How could that be? Those days with the disorderly Mr Bin, with the pestful little ape Freddy and the moulting feline. Where had this confusion come from?

  My guests could not stop outside the guesthouse as no one is permitted to park on the Grand Circular Road. They appeared from a side road, Mr Summerberg with a wheeled frame pushing forward against the blowing and Miss Camlyn with one hand behind Mr Summerberg’s back and the other tight on her rain hood. Myself I got wet under my plastic bag makeshift umbrella, but that was of no concern to me.

  Miss Camlyn hugged me, so much so that I was tempted to weep, experiencing her warm personage again, touching antennas once more with a person. We could not hear what we said because of the barrage of the traffic, but it was certainly sincere felicitations.

  It took patient efforts to assist Mr Summerberg up the steep stairs to my chamber. ‘When will you make luncheon for me again, Mr Mlantushi?’ he said as he attempted command of his wavering legs on the last step.

  ‘I’d take immense pleasure in cooking for you again Mr Summerberg, but no cooking is permitted up here.’

  We took off our plastics and coats and draped them on my wardrobe door and sat ourselves in a row on my bed as there was no chair. Miss Camlyn was smiling and scented, attentive to her grandfather, and bringing a full winter-statement black and white sleeve dress, warm gilet and pearl strap boots to my dull room. Mr Summerberg wore a dark navy suit, braces and white shirt with burgundy tie. Dignified, for sure.

  ‘Mozzy, I can’t believe this is where you’re living, this poxy cupboard of a room,’ Miss Camlyn said. ‘I did warn you about my mother.’

  I shrugged. ‘My father used to say, A small house will hold a hundred friends.’

  She sighed. ‘Seeing you Mozzy, has reminded me of my little fantasy of escaping to a different life, far away. Saying goodbye to ball bearings.’ Then she saw my sparrow. ‘Aw, you’ve got a little bird. How sweet.’

  ‘A sort of friend,’ I joked, light of heart.

  Mr Summerberg purged his throat. ‘Let’s not waste the sands of time like beach bums. Mr Mlantushi, we’ve come to ask formally for your help.’

  ‘My one desire is always to help.’

  ‘Ben has my recording equipment. I want to know if he’s recorded the akalat. He won’t reply to our emails. I’m minded to just fly out there. El’s reluctant.’

  ‘We don’t know if Ben’s still guiding and we shouldn’t be flying so much. Only birds should be allowed to fly.’

  ‘The brackish akalat has to be played at my funeral. We can’t have my funeral until we’ve got it.’

  ‘Grandad! Stop it! You do make me laugh.’

  But I did not think that Mr Summerberg was jesting. It seemed to me that his desire for the bird to be played at his funeral was for some other reason than the trivial matter of having a musical decoration to the proceedings.

  ‘We’re requesting your help, Mr Mlantushi,’ said Mr Summerberg. ‘Will you contact Ben? We’re sure he’d reply to you.’

  I had not spoken to Mr Bin since I had left. I had said my final goodbye to him and left him for this other future of mine. This life here which too many times, I had to admit, meant staring at a wall in front of me —which I could touch from where I sat— and experiencing the unending drone of the road, twenty-four seven. As intolerable as a tinnitus of cicadas and flies.

  ‘Is Ben alright, Mozzy?’ said Miss Camlyn. ‘I tried to help him when I got back by posting crazily good stuff about his safari walks. But nothing. It’s like he’s died.’

  I pondered what feeling she had for him now, whether she still loved him with blind adoration despite his contracted matrimonial status or if she had finally understood his true character. I conjectured that she might not know yet what she felt about him. The fluctuating and inscrutable sentiments of ladies could swerve about, even wax and wane over many seasons, before they finally settled into a fixed and categorical position.

  ‘He was alive the last time I saw him,’ I said. ‘Of course, I delivered your recording equipment. He said he’d been looking for your bird. That gives us certain hope he’s recorded it by now.’

  ‘I love you Mozzy! So, so, optimistic on everything.’

  ‘Optimism is his opium,’ said Mr Summerberg.

  My guests’ request reminded me how Mr Bin had asked me to find the bird with him and to record it. I felt a certain discomfort at the memory, not only that I should have assisted him in fulfilling the wish of Miss Camlyn and Mr Summerberg but also that, maybe, I had been cold to Mr Bin. Had I misunderstood him, even knowingly misunderstood him by telling myself that he wanted a porter to carry the recording machinery? More likely he wished a companion. Someone to ease his solitude. I wondered if I myself had been infected with colonial-era thinking —assuming a master-and-his-house-servant situational.

  ‘Do you talk to your sparrow?’ said Miss Camlyn.

  She had to repeat as I was still distracted of mind. ‘He just shares the room rent.’ I ha-ha’d. ‘But yes, I confess I talk to him. Of course, he doesn’t answer. He’s just a little fowl.’

  ‘Oh Mozzy, how heart-breaking. Is he your only pal here?’

  Mr Summerberg was causing the bed to complain with his efforts to stand up. ‘Did you say a sparrow? Doesn’t look like a sparrow to me. Let me take a closer look. El, where’s Ben’s walking stick?’

  ‘You use a frame now, Grandad. Don’t you remember? We left it downstairs. Here, hold my arm.’

  Mr Summerberg shuffle-shifted along beside the bed towards the cage. He bent to look.

  ‘This is not a sparrow.’

  Miss Camlyn lent over. ‘It’s small like a sparrow. They’re small, aren’t they?’

  ‘I assure you, sir, it’s a sparrow,’ I said. ‘The seller of both exotic and mundane pets confirmed its provenance.’

  ‘It’s not a sparrow.’

  ‘It’s not an ostrich, Grandad. You’re not going to fool me again.’ She laughed lou
d, but Mr Summerberg was not laughing. ‘What is it, Grandad?’

  Mr Summerberg peered and peered. ‘Where are my glasses, El?’

  She reached in her bag and passed them. Mr Summerberg adjusted the round frames to be concurrent with his eyes. He had become a professor, white-hair-thinking.

  ‘What is it, Grandad?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s not native. Maybe a migrant.’

  ‘I was misled by the retailer?’

  ‘You were. Only a foreigner would mistake this for a sparrow.’

  ‘Et moi,’ said Miss Camlyn.

  ‘Is it a brackish akalat?’ I said. I knew Pel’s fishing owl and hornbill and it was too small for those. ‘It’s certainly a brackish akalat, if it’s not a sparrow.’

  ‘I would bet all my rare collectables that it’s not,’ said Mr Summerberg. ‘It would be an impossible coincidence.’

  ‘Like the flukes in my trashy book Into the Red Sunset,’ said Miss Camlyn.

  Mr Summerberg asked, ‘Does it sing?’

  ‘It refuses. I’ve had it for weeks. It’s silent. Very silent.’

  ‘Maybe cos it’s upset,’ said Miss Camlyn. ‘I don’t think it likes being in a cage.’ She put her finger between the bars of the cage and wiggled it. The bird remained calm. ‘Ooh, you are a cute little thing.’

  Mr Bin had said that birds learn their songs from their fathers. Maybe it had been an orphan, so never had instruction.

  ‘Could be a female,’ said Mr Summerberg. ‘Female birds don’t always sing.’

  ‘What’s a bird’s life without it singing?’ said Miss Camlyn.

  ‘Even if it was a brackish akalat, and it can’t be, if it doesn’t sing it’s not much use to me.’

  ‘Let’s believe it’s a bracky one!’ said Miss Camlyn. ‘It could almost be because it’s also small.’

  ‘Good thing it’s not. My equipment’s in Africa with The White Tribesman.’

  We were quiet, I think waiting for the bird to change its mind and sing. The silence was not for long. ‘What does a bracky one look like, Grandad?’