The Chef, the Bird and the Blessing

by Andrew Sharp

  The akalat cocked at my hand, the hand that fed it.

  ‘I’m only good for feeding you, a bird. That’s the topmost of my skills. I can arrange insects on a dish.’ I stared at this truth in the feed tray of the bird. ‘My achievement? A celebrated chef in a skyscraper city? No. My terminus had always been gizzard-food cooker and bird feeder.’

  Now I understood. The consummation of a hope is only known on arrival, it cannot be foreseen. Yes, to walk is not necessarily to arrive at your assumed destination. There may be another terminus, far from glorious. I had known my road would be arduous and long, but I had believed that I would finally walk through a shining kitchen door. But the end of my hard path had led to this; this cupboard room, in solitary, serving a small bird its bug dinners.

  I tried to think of one of my father’s sayings, one that would impart me some alternative wisdom, but it seemed that such a catastrophic position had not been envisaged by the erudition of the elder. There was no knowledge for such a circumstance.

  The bird flapped in a sudden flurry about its cage. It was trapped of course, and it exhausted itself. It believed that if it flapped hard enough it could one day free itself and reach a sky. It was trying always for this impossible utopian destination. There was some concordance between us in this respect.

  ‘I’m going to release you,’ I said.

  I had surprised myself, by saying such. I said it again, louder, so that I could hear myself confirming. My own hopes were lost, but why deny it to another living? I felt a little soothing of my pain, a distraction perhaps.

  The bird flurried again. I alone could give it its dream: open skies, the freedom of unbounded air under its wings, live dinners flapping past.

  ‘You’ve shared my loneliness. I’ve fed you and you’ve been my companion, but that’s not what you wish for.’ I felt an ill-disciplined tearing of my eyes. ‘I apologise for holding and confining you. I’m going to set you free.’

  Of course, the bird did not understand. It did not know to joy at my words.

  ‘Maybe you’ll sing when you’re free of your cage. Maybe Miss Camlyn was right. You’re too sad to sing.’

  It fluffed itself and I brought my other shirt from the wardrobe to shelter its cage from the cold-seeping period-piece window.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll not release you here in this chilly climate where you’ll die in the winter, where insects are few, where you’ll not find a mate. I’ll release you at the homeland you fly to in your dreams. Where your kind was made for. I’ll free you in the bush, in the wild and insect-bounteous lands beyond Romaji.’

  I remembered the bird in the Kensington park, flitting from here to there, busy without ceasing, fulfilling its desires, pleasing its instincts, feeling its wings utilised. But my bird was restrained in its cage, unable to busy, unable to purpose. It could not achieve the functions to which it was born. Without purpose, there was no meaning to its short life. Surely a tragedy for any living thing. I laid my hand on the cage as if I wished to reach the bird and hold it in my hand. My cheeks tickled and I found that they were wet. Yes, I had lost my senses. I was indeed weeping, losing personal control. My tears poured. I did not know why I felt so deeply for the bird.

  I laid myself on the bed without disrobing or taking off my shoes, not thoughtful to creasing my trousers. Despite such, flopped in the bed, I felt somehow relieved to submit myself to disorder, to be abandoned to silly crying and to a sentimental desire to free the bird. I had no dream to keep discipline for anymore. I closed my puff-eyes and slept the deep sleep of a soul resigning itself to freefall in the bottomless abyss without care.

  Tartan-woolled lady told me to wait outside my room at the hour ten departure time with my case and my bird. She eyed the cupboard, wiped a scrutinous finger along the shelf, shook the pillow and inspected the sink. She ticked a paper on a clipboard.

  ‘Two coat hangers, one pillow slip, one duvet cover, one sheet, one towel, one soap. Och, seems the entire inventory’s present, clean and correct! Sign here Mr Tooshy.’

  ‘With pleasure, of course.’

  She followed me down the stairs in silence, but at the front door she said, ‘I’ll be sorry to see yer go, Mr Tooshy. I’m Morag, by the way.’

  ‘Please call me Mozzy.’

  ‘May I? Yer’ve been a satisfactory boarder, Mozzy. I hope yer’ve found yer stay here to yer liking.’

  ‘Very excellent, Miss Morag.’

  A somewhat cautious smile, which appeared offered to myself, crept about her lips and I surmised that if I had stayed longer, we might eventually —after such polite interactions over many months— have become friendly to each other. This was how it was for those aspiring to live in a big progressive city. Little by little to gain familiarity so that, in due time, they would feel free to introduce themselves to each other by name.

  I footed to the park, carrying my net, my suitcase containing my matrimonial suit, and my bird. I had covered the cage with my spare shirt to protect the bird from fright and chill. We would find a sheltered place in the park for the night and then the next day I would walk to the airport, the cash in my pocket not being sufficient for the bus. It was not more than twenty kilometres or so and there would no doubt be food served on the jet, so I only needed patience. I had no concern —patience was one of my core attributes. In the meantime, the park had all necessary amenities: a drinking fountain, public ablutions open during the day and a bench fitting my compactful body. A blanket for the night would be desirable, it still be cold in May, but I had no wish to beg and, in any case, I had the warm coat kindly donated me by the street sleeper. Surely things were not so bad as I had been tempted to believe the previous night. There was no drizzle and no wind, and this was a new day; a new opportunity would surely arise. I had catastrophised too much. I must restart in faith, not dwell on the inconveniences of the past. I should let bygones be bygones. Yes, my habit of hope was hard to suppress. After all, it was my irrepressible hope that had got me all the way to London from the bush.

  I had not long taken up residence on the bench, finding a patch to sit on which was dry and not too lichened and bird pooped, when the teacher who had accepted to empty bed pans, although his vocation was professor, came walking by in his black knit cap. He stopped and bent to look at the akalat.

  ‘A bird?’

  ‘He’s my companion,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you taking it?’

  ‘Back to my country. I’m releasing it home.’

  ‘They won’t let you take it on the plane. Can I have it?’

  ‘No, I’ve promised it freedom.’

  He knelt down beside the bird. ‘Your companion you say? Maybe he’s even your friend.’

  ‘Teacher, I can understand friendly, but what is this friend thing? It makes me somehow troubled and perplexed. I don’t trust it. I have reason not to. What is a friend? What’s its meaning?’

  ‘Are you asking me as a teacher?’

  ‘That’s your profession, no? Yes, I’m asking the teacher.’

  He stood and footed back and forward in front of my bench, eyes to the ground, arms clasped behind his back, his brow in furrow. He imagined an eager class awaiting his instruction. He cleared his throat and spoke clear. ‘A friend is someone who forgives your faults.’

  ‘But teacher,’ I said, ‘I’m happy to enact such for my acquaintances. I don’t need them to be friends to forgive their faults. In point of fact, this bird and I have forgiven each other’s faults, but a bird cannot be an actual friend, of course. It’s only a bird.’

  He continued to pace. ‘You could call your bird a friend and no one would contradict you.’

  ‘It seems then that friend is a careless term.’

  ‘Let me see. A philosopher said that a friend is a second self.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want such a friend. I wouldn’t like to find and tolerate the same f
aults as mine in another, even if they are few. I’d find it difficult to be friendly with a second self. They would surely be a rival, applying for the same high-end postings in competition with me.’

  ‘A thought-provoking answer. Okay, try this. A friend is trustworthy.’

  ‘So is the bank.’

  He paced more. ‘A friend is someone you’d like to see often,’ he tried. ‘Someone whose absence makes you feel wistful.’

  ‘If I lost this bird, even though it’s just a bird, I’d feel the same.’

  ‘A friend is loyal.’

  ‘That’s duty, not friendship. I’ve always endeavoured loyal. For instance, I was loyal to my previous employer, despite provocations.’

  ‘You’re a bright and challenging pupil. How about this? A writer said that friendship is sweet and steady and so enduring that it’ll last a whole lifetime.’ He paused. ‘If not asked to lend money.’ The teacher chuckled and I nodded. He had told a fine and clever joke.

  ‘But my wife and I are sweet and steady, even life enduring,’ I countered. ‘It’s what’s expected according to the duty and necessities of our matrimonial bond. We are friendly, but are we friends?’ After I said such, I recalled that money was indeed a disturbance in our relations. The joke the teacher had told me was not so funny.

  The teacher walked again, but now he moved his hand in a circle to encourage his brain processes. Eventually he said, ‘Maybe friendship is just a treasured notion held only in the heart. An admirable idea that no one can define … a laudable thing that we think we should believe in to show we’re good human beings.’

  ‘I’ve no need for that reassurance, thank you.’

  He stopped and gave me an uneasy eye. I also was disquieted to hear myself say such. It somehow sounded self-satisfied and presumptuous to set myself up as the judge of myself.

  ‘Maybe it’s just true that to be without a friend is to be poor indeed,’ he said.

  I was losing his logic.

  ‘My break’s up. Thank you for the chance to practice my teaching. It’s made me want to apply again.’ He turned to go, but then stopped and said, ‘Personally I find birds too aloof, too distracted and busy to be friends with, but I wish you good luck with it.’

  I tended my akalat, feeding it bugs from a packet, keeping it warm, waking during the night to check it was safe. I arose early. I had arrangements to make.

  Chapter 18

  Truly, we eventually and always return to dust. The road to Romaji village had still not been tarred and so the bus still crunched and grinded over mile on mile of gravel, travelling ever towards that heat-ghost horizon. But perhaps the Anthropocene had its rapacious eye on the village as there were now pylons marching beside our way, strung with the wire-tentacles of electric power. The orange wash of fires and kerosene lamps would soon exist only in the memories of the old.

  At our village terminus, I stepped out onto the dirty earth. My shirt was creased and sweated, my collar, ears and neck were powdered grey and rust and the rough jolting had caused my nerves to become as tight as piano strings, but without the pleasant notes. Worse had preceded. I had bedded overnight in the capital in the bus station, but as I slept my case had been stolen. I was empty-handed apart from my insect net. My matrimonial suit was no longer mine. I had regret. How could I ever interviewee again? But in truth, I was glad to be away from cities with their hard concretes and metals, perpetual noise, harsh lights, swerving people. I was at last returning to the soft and abiding arms of my good wife. How I longed to see her. To be joyed by her.

  I walked through the village. A news board informed that elections had seen the President ousted. The incoming President was to divert resources to more needy regions. Romaji would no longer be favoured. Despite such, the place of the anthill had been erased, built on by House of Concrete. Buildings Merchants. I noted No Pain no Gain Investments, and WhatsApp Saloon. New churches and assemblies competed for custom. Apostles of the True Testament (Signs, Wonders) and National Prophetic Assemblies (Name It then Claim It). I stopped by a billboard-sized new sign. Pastor Cain Assemblies (formerly Divine Prosperity Assembly). There was a photograph of Pastor Cain’s grand assembly hall and Pastor Cain himself, attired in a gloss purple suit. Blessings! Healings! Resurrections!

  Behind the glass walls and chrome shine of the bank I caught a glimpse of Monica. She was still decorated with gold hoop earrings, but her hair was now in lustrous ponytail braids. A fashion of the city. She was transacting smoothly in mutual respect with clients. But such places were shut to me now. We would be pursued by the bank for the loan. They might take our house. That is what I heard myself saying to said self, and it made me stop. I had reverted to pessimism. To a melancholic persuasion. Had I not become like the teacher in the Kensington park? A man not unlike me who had lost all expectation, who had abandoned his dream. Had I lost again my sure hope that tomorrow would deliver? Why was I thinking in such a defeated manner? Surely, I was allowing what had happened in London to cage me. I had had an unfortunate evening in a kitchen, true, but what was one day in the many thousands of days of an ambitious man? The future did not have to arise from the past. Had I not seen a new tourist lodge signed off the road? What opportunities would therefore arise? Yes, Chef Mlantushi would chef again. The beautifully-braided Monica would respect, would not side-glance me again. I walked on, stamping firmly of foot, shoulders military. Return to old watering holes for more than water; friends and dreams are there to meet you.

  But despite my lion-hearted effort, it was hard to maintain a renewed expectation that tomorrow would be better than yesterday. My life coach had been stern to me. But one prospect was not in doubt: I would soon see my good wife. She would be delighted to see her steadfast husband and I would be uplifted by her dancing eyes and joying disposition.

  Our house was small in comparison with the grand quarters, which I had footed past in London. But no room of ours was as small as mine in Lochview Guesthouse. The brick on the table still lay there, still brick-like on its gloss wrapping and its Chinese ribbon. The sofa was even larger than I remembered and was just as pink and opulent. Only the trumpet-like vase of unbreakable glass was missing.

  ‘My dear wife, I’m home,’ I called. I craved her good humour to bring light to my heart, not to mention too forwardly and suggestively, her kissing.

  Dorothea came without greeting from the kitchen and stood in the doorway. She was attired in the plain and spiritless vestments of the Divine Prosperity Assembly and her hands were clasped tensely together in front of her white pinafore. I open-armed her, ready for her to joy over to me. She stayed in the doorway looking at me, but without expression. My hands fell.

  ‘My late husband,’ she said, ‘it would’ve been better for you not to return to me —far better not to have come home.’

  ‘Late husband? What’s this?’

  ‘Prepare yourself.’

  ‘Yes?’ I had a bad feeling. Was this not an irregular homecoming?

  ‘Sit yourself on the sofa. I’m going to tell you everything.’ I had no wish to sit. ‘Sit!’ she commanded. I sat.

  ‘Yes … prepare yourself.’ She looked away to the window. ‘And don’t interrupt me.’ She took a long breath and then her words fell as hard and loose as stones dumped from a tipper truck. ‘When I knew you weren’t going to send money, I begged Pastor Cain. I begged him to postpone the love offerings. I begged, I begged.’

  She teared and was unable to speak. I made to get up to comfort her, but she put out her hand to stay me put. She was surely injured in her heart, but was refusing me.

  ‘He was angry.’ She stopped again and sobbed. ‘He said the love offerings must continue. Otherwise there’d be no blessings. No hope.’

  ‘Where was his charity? Jezek … fourteen or thereabouts, no?’

  ‘Let me finish! I told him I’d forget the blessings. I’d forget the marble house with plush
furnishings … the fancy car … the high walls topped by protective glass. All that. The praise of the Assembly wouldn’t be mine. I told him I’d return the holy brick for someone else to benefit.’

  She gave another sob, but I knew better than to move again. I had never before seen Dorothea weep. It was much more shocking and heart-moving than seeing a melancholic weep. That would be expected, even dismissible.

  ‘Pastor Cain said he wouldn’t let me break my commitment. If I stopped the love offerings … I’d be cursed. He would excommunicate me in front of the Assembly. A warning to others. An important lesson to the congregation on the dangers of disobedience. Of lack of faith.’

  ‘Where was his compassion?’

  ‘Shut up, will you? I haven’t finished. I cried. He said there was more than one type of love offering. He would generously consider accepting another means of love offering.’

  I waited, but she did not continue. She looked through me.

  ‘Another means?’

  ‘Yes, another means.’

  I puzzle-faced.

  ‘Do I have to spell it out?’

  I felt my heart prepare to fall. ‘You … I think I see … you accepted?’

  ‘The bank was chasing me hard. You didn’t send money. What could I do? I’d already prostituted myself financially. I had no choice.’ Now her tears came freely; they flowed hot and steady as lava. She sobbed out, ‘But I was used.’

  I lost grip on my insect net and it dropped to the floor. I could not look at Dorothea and my vocals were paralysed. I stood up and, lacking knowledge of what to do, lacking previous experience of such matters, I left the house. I turned this way and that way on the stones of the road, on the grit and dust outside. My imagination took me to evil places that no faithful husband should have to go. I had deep feelings that I could hardly understand. How could our wedded bliss come to such? It was as if I was falling into the bottomless abyss of previous mention, but not in a free fall. No, every tormenting thought was like bashing onto a ledge which I then tumbled off to fall again onto another, and so on, down and down. Each thought contradicted the previous. I stumble-footed beside the thick-limbed barrier of euphorbia fencing, back and forward to the standpipe at the corner of the track.