The Man Who Feed the Birds

To "L",

Who found meaning to my dream and who I later abandoned;

like I usually do with the things I love the most... 

CHAPTER 1

     Morning breaks.  A wary and dim ray of light moved slowly from the window, through the wall, across the wooden floor, slowly finding its way to his bed.  A naked brick wall at the head of a corroded metallic bed frame shows a black and white photograph with an illegible message written on it, trapped between a tilted mahogany frame.  Below, curled brown hair and a week old beard covered his ordeal in secret. There, hidden underneath the sound of an early morning ferry and silk handmade linen he laid, with his eyes closed, awake, and waiting for the right time to open them for the first time.  The sound of the belfry of a nearby cathedral followed the first ray of sunlight that dared its way inside, and when it reached his forehead, he opened his eyes.   For a moment, the small room around him turned darker as he took a deep breath.  He rubbed his eyes and coughed desperately a moment before he lit a cigarette, and the white curtain that covered the room’s only window almost flew outside as he exhaled.   Completely dressed, with the cigarette still on his lips he got up, walked towards a small table at a corner of the room and sat on its only chair.  A brown leather briefcase lied atop of the table and in top of it; the outline of two hands was then more visible due to the several days’ accumulation of dust and ashes.   There, like every morning, he sat in silence for a long while with both hands on top of the briefcase, with his eyes fixed on the daily spectacle that the white curtain and the wind had for him. 

As he prepared to wash his face, he waited for the steam to completely blur the mirror before he dared to look at himself on it.  When he finally looked, not being able to recognize his own face gave him a small sense of comfort and complicity.   The water that dripped from his face falling on the wooden floor sounded like skipping stones on a quiet lake, at least for him it did.  For many years he had been longing this moment, waiting for this day.

He walked to a small door at the far wall of the room and stood there for a moment; still, lost in his thoughts. And for the first time in many years, an elusive smile escaped from his lips to quickly disappear again behind his thick beard.  He opened the door and inside, he found a gray suit and a leather gym bag.  On his way back to the bathroom, he reached for another cigarette from the bedside table and lit it before the bathroom door closed behind him.  Minutes later, the light and the steam escaping from the space between the bathroom door and the floor gave the room outside an eerie ambiance of anticipation.   Inside, warm water ran from his dark hair over his now shaved face and he allowed himself one last attempt to remember her face, the same face he knew then was completely lost somewhere in his memory for two decades.   Her voice remained vivid, and every word she said to him. Even after all those years he remembered her perfume, the blue dress that covered her pale skin and the fluttering of birds flying over an old wooden pier, the same that became through time his only witness, the same pier that took her away, and the same that took him twenty years to find. 

His search started exactly twenty years before that morning and soon after he saw her for the first and for the last time.   It was his fourteen birthday, and after a small celebration among friends and family, he went to bed earlier than usual.  He felt tired, something rare at the blossom of youth, and even with the loud music coming from outside, he quickly fell asleep.  When he woke up three hours later, it was still dark and he could hear voices and music coming from outside; but he couldn’t open his eyes, his throat felt heavy and his mouth was dry.  Still shaken from what had seemed to be a very strange dream, he urgently rubbed his eyes and recognized a residue that reminded him of small grains of sand at the tip of his fingers.  He had been crying.  Dry tears, he thought while making a quiet effort to sit at the edge of his bed.  Captivated he stood there; quiet and restless, and revisited in his head the dream over and over, trying to find a meaning if there was any, trying to understand.   Over and over he opened and closed his eyes in the darkness of his room, tempting himself to fall asleep even knowing that it would be useless, as it was useless to find her again, to dream the same dream, and every single time, it was the same, futile. 

<<There’s a man walking alone on a dirt road, next to a cliff that touches a vast and endless ocean at its feet.  I can hear footsteps scratching the gravel, the sound of birds flying overhead and the wind.  I can smell the sea, the dirt road turns into sand, into wooden steps, it’s like...  The sky is gray but there are no clouds, and the red Sun at the horizon gives the ocean a reddish flare>>.

 "I am that man." 

I am walking now downhill and approaching to what appears to be an abandoned wooden pier. I’m walking over small rocks now.

"What is that smell?"  

I’m closer now and I no longer hear my footsteps or the wind, suddenly, everything goes quiet, everything stops. 

"There is someone else."  

I’m not wearing any shoes and the small rocks under my feet dissolve and turn into sand, and the sand quickly into old wooden panels.  I am now at the pier. I cannot hear it creak but I know it does, I can feel it on my knees.  Wait!  I see something, there is someone else.  It smells like flowers, is all around me now.  I can’t see anything but blurriness.

"There is someone there, a woman."

I look back and for my bewilderment, the cliff next to the dirt road from where I came disappeared and now on its place, colorful small structures, a large cathedral, and empty city surrounded by canals.

"I have seen this place before."

A cold breeze coming from the edge of the pier made me turn, and there, sitting at the far end I saw her, immobile and facing away to the sea.  Everything is so quiet, so still, and even when there are hundreds of them,  I no longer hear the birds flapping, just the waves braking at the rocks under the cricking wood walk.   An enchanting fragrance surrounded me.

"Don’t be afraid, come closer...",   she said while still looking away.

I looked around, It took me a long while.  I don’t remember  walking towards her. I sat next to her but she didn’t move, I am too nervous to even look at her. She has no face.  I can’t tell if the Sun is rising or setting but I could almost hear the ocean extinguishing its flames.

"Do you know why you are here?"   She asked me and her dark eyes buried into mine.

I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t answer and my body was numbed.  She turned her eyes again to the horizon and her brief silence seemed an eternity.  Suddenly, she turned to me and whispered to my ear, slowly got up and walked away, disappeared…

Completely covered in steam, there was almost no visibility inside the bathroom when he opened the curtain.  He extended his arm and reached a towel, wrapped it over his waist and opened the door with his left hand while standing in front of the mirror.  The steam slowly find its way outside to the room, dancing slowly over the floor, climbing gently over the bed and suddenly speeding up, escaping through the white curtain to the silence of the city outside.  With his right hand he touched the mirror and quickly retrieved it, creating a clear space where he could now see his face.  He stood there, contemplating his face for an instant until the mirror blurred back again.  When he walked out, he saw that the drops of water at the floor from when he had washed his faced earlier had  foound the cigarette ashes  and formed what resemble to be to be flying birds on the floor.  He rubbed his eyes as if trying to get back his senses.   From the leather bag on his closet, he took a small mirror and studied every centimeter of his face once again.  His skin looked rejuvenated and rested, and, when his eyes met his reflection for a second time, as usual, an ocean of emotions and doubts invaded him.  He couldn’t believe that he had being able to wait two decades to find someone who he had just seen in a dream, who in fact wasn’t real.  Or was she?   

A month before, and not far outside those walls, he discovered that the vanishing cliff next to the never-ending sea and the colorful city surrounded by canals at the side of an old mysterious wooden pier actually existed; as real as it was on his now blurred  and corrupted memory.

CHAPTER 2

Dressed in an elegant gray suit, with his dark hair still wet, he stood in front of the dusty briefcase and opened it without further hesitation.  Inside, he found his long companions, a twenty year’s old notebook, a city map, photographs, a small clear bottle containing a yellowish liquid and a paper bag.  Almost ready, he assured himself as he sat and opened the notebook and slowly began passing its pages.  He passed several drawings of an unknown figure, all very much alike. The pages smelled like gentle rain falling over dry leaves at the last day of summer.  As he continued violently passing page after page in silence, he also passed several handwritten notes, maps, and a few drawings of wooden piers, all with a small city on their background.  In the last decade, he turned out and became a good artist and a well known novelist.   He dedicated almost half of his life to words and research, both serving his professional and personal mainsprings. Living a jealously private and reclusive life, he had also managed to travel unnoticed to dozens of coastal cities around the world in search for the one he believed to be the right one:  Antofagasta, Cascais, Azores, Tristan da Cunha, Vestmannaeyjar and Colombo being just a handful of them.  That day, an unrecognizable sense of anticipation invaded him. He had finally found, as he dreamed, the pier where he saw her, where she told him to find her, and where she would be waiting for him.  He closed the notebook, looked up to the decaying ceiling and took one last deep breath just before he confined it again on his briefcase.

He got up and walked to the bedside table, picked up the receiver and dialed a single number. A grateful masculine voice answered:

"Good morning. I am calling from room 1106. I would like to cancel my transportation request, Is quite a beautiful morning and I would prefer to walk…"  

After thanking the gentleman at the hotel reception he hanged up the phone and walked back to the small table.  In what it seemed to be a single precise movement, he decisively lifted the briefcase and left the door open as he walked out.  As he walked down the corridor, he passed the elevators and headed for the stairs.  A few years ago, the inexplicable sense of grief and anticipation of this day turned him into an old man.  There was now, as a first, a certain level of confidence and elegance in his stride. When the heavy glass door closed behind, everything around him went quiet.  Briefly, and only seeking leverage, he grabbed onto the sidebar with his left hand as if to find some support as he started his way down the stairs but quickly recovered.  His stride was light and almost rhythmical.  He could grasp the occasional joyful voices coming from each floor, muffed and distant as he continued his way down; and, as if on a trance, with his eyes fixed in front, he avoided to look down.

<<Find me.  Twenty years from today…>>  He could hear her voice as vivid as the first time.

He paused.  He thought he heard a voice coming from inside the building just before the heavy door closed and the midday Sun blinded him.  He looked down the empty street and allowed himself a moment to adapt to the light; then, he turned and looked around him.  The city was quiet and warm and  the sound of a departing train and his first step blended in unison.  From there, he could barely see the clock tower and the train station’s rooftop was hidden by tree branches not far away.  Slowly and still lost in his thoughts, he began walking towards the train station and a familiar sound suddenly brought him back.  

Dozens of birds flying everywhere, flying over him, and an infantile smile escaped from his lips when he almost fell on his knees.  A recognizable smell announced his proximity to the sea, and the usual city sounds came back alive as the top half of the clock tower became visible.  He looked at his wristwatch and then again to the clock tower, understanding.  He assured himself that there was no way to be late for a meeting with unraveled destiny, if it turned out to be so. He couldn’t be late, not after twenty years, without any certainty or statement that relieved the doubt that what he was doing was not the feat of a madman.  <<Why meeting someone that I just dreamed?>>  That was the only question he found himself unable to answer, not to anyone, not to his editor, not even to himself.

CHAPTER 3

No one can tempt death that many times and walk away with it, not with their own two feet.  Not in these murky shallow waters.  It’s not her first time, but surely her last.  She gave her best fight, she tried to come out; perhaps once again she changed her mind.  But it was too late. Her strength, she gave up.

"Right Ms. Gray? What was she thinking? That she could cheat death; cheat us?"  He whispered to the bird on his hand as he leaned forward and got closer.   

"Play me?  What did you say Ms. Gray?"

"I know.  Last time she got lucky, yes. Perhaps this time one of the anchor lines got entangled to her legs, but she did try to come out; right? - Go and take her up. Take her for a ride. Go take her far away before is too late and she goes for good."

He raised his hand in a quick and precise movement and the bird flew away. He got up an instant before the rescue diver resurfaced, several meters in front of him with Triana’s lifeless body, wearing the same blue dress she wore for years.  Her legs were entangled with a rope at her ankles.

"She’s dead, yes.  No one can cheat death twice from here and call it a victory.  Right Ms. Gray?"    The old man whispered to himself as he carefully managed to walk through a carpet of pigeons that covered the cobblestones around him.  

He gave a few steps before the young and masculine voice of a Guardia Costiero called for him, he continued walking even after the Guardia Costiero yelled for him to halt as he walked decisively towards him.  With small tired steps, the old man continued walking, ignoring the guard’s call.  He reached his jacket’s side pockets simultaneously with both hands, and with a single motion he crushed the bread pieces into crumbs and raised both arms above his head spraying them to the air in a triumphal gesture.  Instantly, a thousand feeding birds came from nowhere and formed a thick wall between him and his follower, allowing him to disappear, or so he thought.  The Guardia Costiero kept walking decisively a few meters behind him, faster through the thick cloud of pigeons until he finally found his shoulder. 

"Excuse me sir, I need to ask you a question." He said while trying to compose himself and catch his breath.  

Before the young policeman finished his request, the old man stopped defiantly in front of him and fixed his eyes into his as he began unbuttoning his worn out tweed jacket and his shirt.  The guard gave a quick step backwards and made an attempt to reach for his gun.  One button at a time, almost measured, he opened his dark shirt and raised both arms allowing the young policeman to see it.  The skin on his broad chest was completely covered with scars, and in its center, he kept the only word he ever shared with the rest of the world.  The wrinkled tattoo read:  SORDOMUTO 

He stood there for a long while, even after the Guardia Costiero had walked away and was now back at the boardwalk, trying to dissipate the growing group of nosy and curious wanderers and locals who wanted to take a closer look to “Triana la pazza’s” body, as they knew her at Isola San Pietro.   With his eyes fixed to the fragile wooden pier from where Triana had jumped to the murky waters of the canal.  The approaching sirens of two Polizia municipale boats brought the old man back and he immediately lowered both arms and walked away; disappearing as he walk through the narrow space between two colorful and faded small buildings.   

Several minutes later and not far from where Triana Gallo had drowned, he sat at the usual corner outside the cathedral where every Sunday he patiently waited for the small crowd to come out. The same crowd, he thought.  A crowd formed mostly by the avant-garde and by pretentious Catholics and tourists.   Just a handful of locals; not even that make them the best Christians, he always reminded himself.  Not many, but among them was Lucia.  Lucia’s new parents were faithful Catholics and also very predictable: they never missed Sunday mass.  Lucia, even with her 9 years of age, she knew more than they though and even more than she should.  

"She always make her wear that same dress, that old tramp.  She always do and she hates it, I can see it in her eyes.  But still, she always manages to smile, so gracious!  Oh, she looks so much like her mother, she’s her mirror, and she reflects everything but her demons…"  The old man whispered.

Lucia knew that the woman holding her hand wasn’t her real mother; the kids at her school were so cruel, but she never dared to ask.   When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she always turned around and looked for for the old man.  That was the only reason why he kept going there, to see her smile.  She was the only one who had ever smiled at him. 

"Back so soon Ms. Gray?"  -he barely opened his lips when a grey pigeon landed on his legs

"Look! She looks just like her mother; doesn’t she Ms. Gray? She will be as beautiful as she is, or should I say, as she was?  Beautiful nevertheless, but let’s hope that not as mad.  Did you find somebody good enough for her Ms. Gray? Did you?  There’s still time, I know.  That’s the only thing we have don’t we?"  he paused for a long while and then continued: 

"They are leaving now Ms. Gray.  Let’s go on.  Come on now Ms. Gray, we’ll come back next Sunday. Let’s go, we have to feed the others."

 

CHAPTER 4

At the station in Mestre, he chose to grab a cup of tea before boarding the train to St. Lucia in a last attempt to find calm and control to his growing anticipation.  At the table, he lit a cigarette and took a long drag as he opened his leather briefcase to review his notes one last time.  Inside his writing pad he found her picture, taken almost four decades ago.  She was graceful, so elegant; he thought as he shook his head and placed it back inside the briefcase, facing down.  He took the last sip of tea and leaving his cigarette still lit on the ashtray, he got up with the metallic sound of a stopping train.   The five kilometer ride over the Ponte della Libertà to St. Lucia fell longer for him, heavier than the last time.  He couldn’t clear his mind from the recurrent memories.  The vivid memory of the dream that brought him there and the countless questions that piled through the years.            <<Why me?>>  For twenty years he asked himself the very same question.  At first he was hesitant when he tried to talk to anyone about it; and it was not until he unexpectedly found her in an article about an Italian actress who had drowned in Venice that he actually found some sort of sense to it, or otherwise. Theater actress Triana Gallo drowns in Venice.   Her entire life was a question mark, a puzzle.  How she suddenly vanished for years after her great but brief success and was then found.  When they found her, no one  recognized her: beaten and bleeding at that park.  She was pregnant.  

<<Why me? >>

After arriving at St. Lucia, Emilio took a quick look at his wristwatch and began walking.  He knew exactly where he was heading and who was waiting for him.  It was warm considering that was still morning.  It was not his first time in Venice, but this time, he would at least find the missing piece of Triana Gallo’s puzzling life, or so he thought.  He would be able to finally write the last chapter of his story, a story that had taken almost half of his life to write.   He walked, lost in his thoughts, but his legs knew where to take him.  A moment later he stopped.  When he crossed the small bridge to Isola San Pietro, he looked back and allowed himself an instant to remember the long journey that had taken him there and something inside reminded him that it was not the end.  Suddenly, the sound of flapping birds overhead made him turn and the figure of a woman appeared and passed running in front of him. <<What is that smell?>>  He walked a few meters and turned towards the pier to find that there was no one there.  As he got closer to the boardwalk, he noticed footprints over the cobblestone, wet footprints that ended at the edge of an old wooden pier.  And as began following them, a woman’s voice called him by his name.

"Emilio; don’t be afraid.  Come closer. "

He looked at her and it took him a moment to comprehend.  He walked towards her and stopped at her side.

"Excuse me: Lucia?"  He asked her quietly.

She lowered her head in confirmation.  Emilio tried to find her eyes but they were fixed to the pier in front and to the distance and when he finally sat next to her, she remained quiet, immobile.  

"I’m not sure where to start, I have been planning for this moment for two decades and now I am speechless.  Let’s see...  Where do we start?  Do you mind if I take notes?"  Emilio asked with broken words.

"No. You may take notes if you wish." 

"I don’t know where to start..."

"Why don’t we start from the beginning?"  She said and for the first time she looked at him.

"That should be appropriate."  He said forcing a smile. 

"So, this is where your mother died?"

"Yes, today it’s been twenty years since they found her body at the canal."

"I have read many things about her…"

She turned and looked away and Emilio followed her eyes to the distance and once again he saw the wet footprints that ended at the far side of the pier.  There was now a man standing where the footprints ended, an old man that was not there before.  An old man wearing a worn tweed jacket was looking down to the canal.  Suddenly, a gray pigeon landed on his shoulder and he turned, burying his eyes into Emilio's.  Emilio tried to ignore it at first and lowered his head and reached for his notepad. 

"Excuse me Lucia; I need to ask you...  Do you know who that man is?"

She remained silent for a long while; and then, with a thoughtful gesture she looked at the man at the pier and then turned back to him.

"He’s no one...  -She whispered while she bit her lips."

"He's no one. He is just the man who feed the birds..."
 

When I looked again, there was no one at the pier, and the last footprint slowly dissapeared an instant before I felt her warm hand in top of mine.  And as she got lost into the distance once again, a tear rolled down her face.

..................

Mestre, 2009...

                                                                                                                                            

                                                                                                                                           

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