Free Birds Without Wings by Louis De Bernières Page A

little bird because his eye was caught by the brilliant yellow markings on its wings, and the rich scarlet of the mask. It was wedged between two rocks, as if it had simply tumbled out of the sky, overtaken suddenly by death. He picked it out and turned it over in his hands, and although it had stiffened and dried into a contorted posture, he thought that it was the most pretty thing that he had ever seen. He turned it over and over in his hands, amazed by its perfect lightness and insubstantiality.
    Karatavuk and Mehmetçik were swinging from a low branch of a nearby tree, and Drosoula and Philothei were sitting on a fallen pillar by the Letoun, conversing, watching Mohammed talking and grinning to himself, and throwing stiff blades of grass into the water, in order to watch them float.
    Ibrahim went up to the girls, and held out his hand. “Look what I’ve got,” he said.
    “It’s a dead bird,” said Drosoula scornfully. “Take it away, it’s horrible.”
    “Oh, but it’s so pretty!” exclaimed Philothei, putting her hands to her face.
    “It’s a kushu,” Ibrahim told her, proud of his knowledge. “Do you like it?”
    “It’s so pretty!” exclaimed Philothei again.
    “What are you going to do with it?” asked Drosoula, her voice still scornful.
    Ibrahim ignored her, and held it out to Philothei. “Do you want it?” he asked.
    Philothei blushed with pleasure, and said, “Oh yes. Thank you.” She put out both hands, and he laid it gently in her palms.
    The little girl raised the tiny corpse to her face so that she could look more closely at it, and then quite suddenly threw it to the ground, saying, “Öf! Öf! It stinks. It’s disgusting.”
    “Of course it stinks,” Ibrahim told her sensibly. “It’s dead.” Philothei stared down at the bird in continuing horror, and Ibrahim, a terrible feeling of disappointment growing in his gut, asked, “Don’t you want it, then?”
    Philothei was sensitive to his feelings, even at so young an age, and she replied, diplomatically, “Of course I want it, but not when it’s stinky.”
    “You’re mad,” observed Drosoula, with every affectation of maturity. “It’s no use to anyone.” She would have loved it if someone had offered her such a gift, but she knew that no one ever would.
    “It’s pretty,” reproved Philothei.
    “What if I cut the wings off, and you keep those?” asked Ibrahim. “They’re very nice, and they won’t stink. Wings don’t stink when you cut them off. I’ve got some magpie wings, and they’re quite big, but they don’t stink and they’ve never stunk.”
    “I’d like the wings,” said Philothei, who did not really like the idea at all, but who was already caught up in the subtleties of the courtship that would last until the day of her death.
    So it was that Philothei became the owner of a small pair of wings, black, speckled with white and golden at the leading edge. With time she was to become very fond of the curious and useless gift, and would feel a warmth in her heart, and a modest thrill of pleasure every time that she came across them in her small collection of treasures.
    From that time forward, Ibrahim began to associate Philothei with birds, and he would think of her as “the little bird.” Later on, when they were betrothed, he would refer to her by that name among his friends, without sentimentality and without embarrassment. It would also be his pet name for her during those few incandescent and illicit moments when, at the risk of their reputations, they found themselves together and alone.

CHAPTER 12

    The Proof of Innocence (1)
    Polyxeni had much trouble sleeping, because that night the bulbuls were singing their hearts out, and in any case there was a full moon. She tossed restlessly on her pallet, and blinked because her eyes felt hot and dry. At about the hour before dawn she saw her mother, but afterwards was not sure whether or not she had seen her mother’s ghost, or had been visited in