Last Tuesday night, my sister, Lilibeth who lives in Tokyo, sent me an e-mail I sent her in 2001. I was on a fellowship from Japan Foundation. A few days before I left for the island of Shikoku, where I would be interviewing Filipino shipbuilders and laborers, I stayed with my future brother-in-law, Sadahito Tanaka, in an old house in Niza, in Saitama. To reach the bus terminal, I had to cross a bridge over a gurgling stream where huge fishes swam while white and black swans floated above them. The house had large windows where I could see and hear, or imagined, a conversation between seasons, as Summer and its green colors turned into the gold and red of Autumn. I was young, arrogant and pleased with the world. Or so, I thought. The essay begins with an instruction for my sister.
This story is for you Dana, Lia & Therese. If Ara and Mik are interested in the story, this story is also for them. And, if you will be patient and loving to have time to tell this to Jonah, this is also for him. The title of my story is “Bird Story”. The different but, I think, linked stories, are products of my everyday observation whenever I miss you, or whenever I am tired, bored, sleepy, waking up or half-asleep. Tell me what you think of these short, short tales.
The late summer sun is shining on my face but this does not wake me up. It is the sound of a brown and gray bird. It is not actually a sound; it is more of a song. The bird is perched on a solitary electric post. It could have chosen a beautiful tree full of leaves or even fruits which it can eat. Instead, it is there on the ugliest post in this small village. But the bird, in this drab setting, is singing. I thought only birds in spring sing. In fact, books I read as a child would tell me when the birds start singing even when there is still snow on the ground, it is already spring.
Now, this bird is changing my memories. In late summer, at this time when everyone waits for the leaves to fall, here is a bird singing sweet melodies that time and the skies taught him to sing. The bird can sing from anywhere. Not for joy or sadness, the bird seems to sing because it knows how to sing and knows when to sing.
It is morning again, the sun is not yet up. I wake up for no reason because of a very soft sound, almost like bright clouds rushing past each other in a murmur. Then from the whispering, I can hear a tiny, tiny voice. It is a song, barely discernible except that mornings here in my room in Niza are always quiet. The song would stop every now and then. I look behind me for that is where I saw once the bird with the magnificent song. There is nothing there but the ugly, black post. I turn to the small window near my feet and out into the half-opened screen, and there I see the tiniest of birds. It is almost like the size of a big thumb. The song would stop and then continue again because the bird is doing something. It is drinking from the dew that were left on the leaves of the tree. Those crystal drops could well be the bird’s breakfast. Each time the bird swallows the tinier drops, it would let out a tiny sound. Perhaps, the bird was crying. It is the most melodious whisper in the world. It is good to wake up.
Crows in the city
There are too many crows in this city. I often wonder why there are so many of them and where do they come from. They fly in groups always, like a group of naughty children scaring others by their numbers, and their screams. Crows do not have songs, they have what I believe to be the loudest of voices. They seem to be calling each other, they seem to be complaining because there is not enough food for their big body. Despite their ability to walk closely to people, children do not like them. When I walk past the bridge going to the bus stop, I see these crows and I see the color of loneliness, black and flying and distant.
At the bus stop, because I do not run to catch the bus, I have time to look at the clouds, their formation, whether they tell me if the rains are coming or are gone, if the season is changing from summer to autumn, and if the day will just be alright. This noon, I see dark skies but there is no rain. A most unusual and wistful day. It is better to have rain clouds and have rains later on than just to have them up there, without purpose, I tell myself. Then suddenly, I see above me a dark figure. A hawk in this city? It is flying high, with strong determined flying. You could see how it flaps its wings vigorously and allows the wings to remain spread, wide for seconds.
A very good flier, it must be a hawk, I am left convinced. It is heading south, for warmer weather, perhaps. And then, it turns again, flying low to go back to the trees. It is not a hawk, it is a crow. It is not crying, it is just flying. With nowhere to go, maybe.
In Hikarigaoka Park, the pigeons seem to own the place. They are overfed by people. They are given all the attention by the children who think of pigeons as kind, gentle souls. The pigeons can stay on the ground to eat bushels of corn, bits of candies, even ice cream from the small children.
Crows do not stay on the ground. Children are scared of them and grown-ups tend to shoo them away. But, one crow is different. Even in the bird kingdom, like in the human kingdom, someone can be different. This crow is not too big. Its neck looks tired and weak, with some of the hair around it missing. It is a crow disconsolate.
The day I first noticed the crow, it was following an old lady who seemed to be talking to the bird. Indeed, she was. As the crow nudged its beak against the legs of the old lady, the old lady uttered,“Chotto matte.” Please wait. The old lady was being polite to the crow. The crow started to touch the leg of the old lady with its black beak. It was not biting, it was touching.
I knew the crow was hungry.
I left the park with the crow and the old lady and went into the supermarket to buy some cheap crackers. When I came back, the old lady was not there anymore. The crow was moving under the parked bicycle smelling the tires, perhaps trying to remember some kind bike riders who gave it food before.
I opened the bag of crackers. The crackling of the bag was heard by the pigeons. I totally forgot about them. They started to swarm around me. I threw some food at them. But, I did not forget why I was there. I was there to feed this black, ugly bird. I did not know why I wanted to feed it. The crow could not sing. It was not beautiful. It could not wake me up in the morning with a song or whisper. But I was certain it wanted some food.
After I scooped the last bits of crackers from the bag, I turned away. There were too many birds. I looked at the crow. It was holding in its beak a big chunk of food from my bag. Was it looking at me? As I walked away from it, I told myself very quietly, “You are welcome.”
There was a sharp, crisp breeze from above. It was the earliest autumn breeze. I knew I was ready for the cold season.
E-mail: titovaliente@yahoo.com.
Image credits: Jimbo Albano