A veritable pigeon bacchanal is unfolding outside my window. Something is going on. Apparently, of cosmic proportions. The window ledge is shaking, repeatedly struck by the birds’ feet. The air is pulsing with pigeons’ moans and (what should I call this strange, complex sound?) overexcited, rapid flapping of their wings, their cooing and cackling.
The sound is intermingled with the August wind from the steppes (dry feather grass, desiccated animal dung, sometimes, still waters, their heavy, inert mass, and then—there you are—faraway lands, azure lakes, water lilies, and swallows’ nests). You should know that the intermingling of sound and air creates a curious effect—namely, my incidental presence in the boisterous existence of the inhabitants of this particular piece of the planet.
August is a very special time. It looks like they are nesting. Or looking for a place to nest.
I am a quiet observer of avian life. I don’t want to disrupt the (seeming) uniformity of their chaotic milling about with an awkward gesture. An agitated moan—a Raphael-esque profile of a gentle dove, and then—powerful beat of the spread-out wings. When they are folded, you can’t imagine their soaring power. Airstreams carry her to the nearest tree, which looks to be the center of the unfolding drama. Alien voices—of incidental tropical birds, some unknown creatures, mud snakes, woodpeckers, field mice—intrude on the family reunion.
My own presence in this world is so useless and irrelevant. Does it have any impact on the bird population? On the twinkling of the faraway stars? On the birth of new galaxies? On the construction of bird nests? On the growth of the old tree outside my window? On the ripening of chestnuts, their short-lived buttery glow, the Arabic script of the latticework of their leaves, the skies peeking out through the rusty rents.
The crown of creation, the paragon of animals? Don’t make me laugh. Look at the speed (and grace) with which these creatures make their nests. Time is of the essence. This short break in the August heat waves, this beating of wings, this diving and swooping—in human terms, this is the most productive time of their lives (time to beget offspring, buy into a co-op, raise fledglings).
Who is spying on whom here? The dove, glancing at me askance, or me, noting my observations in a mental notepad?
In the last days of August, everything living finally becomes equal to itself. Unseen supervisor issues directions; unseen musicians spread out their music scores. All movements are measured, precise, brisk. There is no room for error.
The tree outside my window is swaying back and forth, rustling, glimmering. It is still (like never before) full of light and life juices, but its days are numbered.
These portly birds have singled out a tree outside my window. I wonder if they have any holidays; do they celebrate Christmas, New Year? As soon as it’s morning, the familiar roll call, the steady, rhythmic rumbling of pigeons’ life starts. The tree, a moment ago awash in birds puffed up like members of some celestial parliament, is suddenly bare, its branches sticking out forlornly. Where does the mass of them dash to in such business-like manner? What are they discussing while staring at me? Perhaps, for them, I am just a piece of a design kit, a detail in an urban landscape. Perhaps, in the birds’ capricious, superficial view, my position is static against the ever-moving world. At least for right now. In the handful of moments of their conscious awareness of my presence in their reference system. This is not such and such street or subway station; rather, this is a particular latitude and longitude circling the earth. My position is static against the sweeping-down pigeon but unstable against so much else. But come to think of it, what can be more reliable than air jets and wind streams? Everything that lives, while ostensibly striving for stability, in fact dodges it, strives to penetrate deeper and wider, to increase its speed and conquer heights. What a shame that I am quite ignorant of exact sciences! That it is not in me to create a flawless formula that could be written down and memorized as the indubitable proof of perpetual movement and interdependence of everything.
I see a pigeon on the ledge, and this is glad tidings. Glad tidings are in the approaching thunderous cloud, in the rainwater impregnating it. In the wind that bends down the trees, in the closeness of the river.
The river smells of the present. It just keeps flowing, without any obvious reason or effort. Maybe we can be like that too? One can sit by the river for hours, letting one’s thoughts float away on the current.
Birds are flying low. The air is laden with future thunderstorms, moisture, heat, twitting. We are approaching the middle of the summer. Its core. Like an apricot pit. The flesh around it is rumpled, drunk on its own sweetness, brimming with juices, exuding temptation. Time is caught in a spiderweb. It flows along its strings, reminds of its existence with soundless tremors; it pierces you from head to toe like a network of blood vessels.
It is as if somebody is training theater binoculars at you. Do you remember—nesting in a cozy Morocco box, the same deep cherry color as the heavy, dusty theater curtain.
Scenes from the past, having moved closer with the help of a primitive optical device, attain clarity and finality. Now the purpose is finally clear! An incidental detail turns out to be unforgettable. The grand and significant stuff becomes blurred and curls on itself on approach. Fireflies of memories blink in and out; it is up to the soul to decide what it wants to keep.
Memory is not a veteran’s chest brimming with medals, not a dusty album of black-and-white photos. It is a gentle light from within. It is a sound of an accordion wafting from the well between buildings. Tentative scale music from a window. A corner of a gauze curtain. A dusty plant on a windowsill. A melodious clinking of dishes. Sounds of feet stamping away in hurt. His face at an angle. His honest tears. Her naïve triumph. The lightness of adoration. Of breathing. Of footsteps. The exaltation of interjections, of the pressing of fingers, stiff with shyness.
It feels wonderful to fall asleep to the murmur of the rain. One can hear the sound of a moving typewriter carriage, dry coughing, a voice of a lonely child frightened by a dream. And somebody’s mumbling behind a wall—one-quarter of aloe, one-quarter of kalanchoe, one drop per cup of milk…
Karineh Arutyunova has ten books of short stories published in Russia and Ukraine. Her writing has won many prizes, including the Andrei Bely Prize (St. Petersburg), and Vladimir Korolenko Prize (Kiev).
Lena Mandel holds an MA from The Jewish Theological Seminary, an MS from Columbia University (psychology), and a JD from Rutgers University.
