Birds Without Wings

by Louis de Bernières

  “How far in front should you shoot? I need to have an idea.”

  “Well, really it depends on the speed and distance. I can assure you it becomes instinctive.”

  Rustem Bey did not risk losing further face. He waited until he could go out on his own, and eventually succeeded in bagging two pigeons. Thereafter he shot a partridge, a duck and another pigeon. He shot three seagulls just for the practice, and then resumed his trips with Granitola, acquitting himself so well that the latter was astonished by his proficiency at something which only shortly before he had deemed impossible. In his turn, Rustem Bey found himself in a position to educate the Italian in the art of stalking deer and wild goat, and how to ride a horse with a Turkish saddle, and so it came about that they achieved and maintained that equality of authority and esteem that is essential to the friendship of two proud men, perhaps especially when those men may have a twenty-five-year discrepancy in their ages.

  As for the rest of the soldiers, Granitola ensured that Sergeant Oliva kept them very busy, believing that idleness is disastrous for morale and performance. They marched hither and thither, staged high-spirited section and platoon attacks, and charged with wild screams and bayonets fixed at ranks of hostile sandbags suspended from the branches of olive trees. Those of peasant origin were detailed to grow vegetables, the sergeant carefully checking the straightness of the drills with pieces of string. Those who could not swim were taught to do so by those who could, and the chickens were removed to the ruins of the ancient Greek amphitheatre. There also were staged entertainments that repeated the same acts that the soldiers had put on for each other a hundred times before, and which always concluded with the singing of patriotic anthems and the unstopping of flasks of wine. The locals regarded them with a mixture of admiration and perplexity, and they in their turn developed a taste for raki, and for roasting and steaming in the hamam. Fortunately for their own health, they never made the discovery that the town had its own brothel, whose sick and pathetic inhabitants were by now on the verge of starvation from lack of clientele, so that it had become more like a convent of Poor Clares than a house of licence.

  What consolidated the relationship between the soldiers and the populace was the determination of the two gendarmes to teach the former how to play backgammon. Sergeant Oliva began the downward spiral into addiction as he had become fascinated by watching the gendarmes playing it in the meydan. He was the first to be taught the game, and consequently the first to become addicted, to be followed hierarchically by the corporals and then the privates, so that it spread through the ranks like one of the diseases that they might have acquired in the brothel, had they known of its existence. Extra backgammon boards were sent for from Telmessos. Each evening the meydan rattled to the sound of dice and counter, and cries either of despair or triumph could be heard until well after dark. Backgammon is a game in which the first half consists of skill, and the second half of luck, so it appeals both to the cunning and the reckless, but it is always skill that wins. Tournaments and championships were inaugurated, with prizes being presented either by Rustem Bey or Lieutenant Granitola, and contestants including more and more of the townsmen, so that eventually even Iskander the Potter and Ali the Broken-Nosed were participants, but no one was ever able to beat the two gendarmes, who had devoted a lifetime to playing it whilst waiting for something to happen.

  Few of the Christian men joined in, however, and it is a curious fact that still puzzles and vexes Greeks to this day, that the Italians got on much better with the Muslims than with the Orthodox Christians, and tended to side with them. This they hold to be evidence that the Italians cannot be proper Christians and are perfidious and unreasonable. It is true that Italian government policy at that time was explicitly to frustrate Greek aspirations, but it is also true that in the occupied territory the mutual dislike on the ground came about because of the attitude of the Orthodox clergy, whose power over their congregations was absolute.

  Kristoforos was still plagued by his grotesque dreams of the funeral of God, and he and Lydia had had their share of suffering in the war. Most of the younger males in his congregation had disappeared into the labour battalions, never to reappear, and consequently the tillage was left entirely to desperate widows and unmarriageable daughters. On his weekly round to collect the offerings of his flock, he found that he was necessarily receiving less and less as time passed, and by and by he and Lydia ever more had to resort to practical measures. Lydia stayed out all day collecting wild greens, and Kristoforos even learned to lay lines from the rocks, thus achieving a neat reversal of Christ’s project to convert fishermen into fishers of men. He became more like an imam in his style of life.

  The Italians had brought no chaplain with them, and found no Roman Catholic church in the town. Naturally they assumed that they could use the Orthodox ones, of which there were two. It was not that they had any intention of attending services, it was simply that a church was where one went for moments of prayer or solitude, and to indulge those occasions when a fit of religiousness descends upon the psyche.

  There was much in the churches that was strange, such as the unreadable Greek lettering, the Byzantine style of decoration, and the depiction of saints such as St. Menas, of whom they had never heard, but there was much that was absolutely familiar, such as the candles, the incense and the fact that there was so much iconography. There were even the same mass-produced pious old ladies dressed from toe to head in black, crossing themselves, lighting tapers and finding things that needed tidying.

  Sergeant Pietro Oliva was a good Catholic. He liked to go into a church and cross himself, genuflect to the altar, and then settle down to a little prayer and contemplation, savouring the coolness, the heavy odours, the darkness, and the sensation of being soaked in the atmosphere of centuries’ worth of devotion that hung in the tenebrous and golden air of churches. He liked to request the Virgin to watch over his wife and two little children, and to check the well-being of his parents in Florence. He took a particular liking to the icon of the Virgin Glykophilousa, and wished that somewhere he could find a copy of it to take home.

  He was crossing himself before it one day early in the occupation, when he had the astonishing experience of being assaulted from behind by what seemed at first to be a very large and infuriated bat. As he put his arms up to protect his head, he realised that he was being attacked by a very angry Orthodox priest, who was battering him about the head with a holy book, and cursing him in language that he did not understand, but which was undoubtedly vehement and picturesque. Kristoforos’s eyes were glittering, he was so enraged that he spat with each curse, and his beard was quivering.

  Sergeant Oliva ran swiftly out of the church with his hands protecting his head, with Father Kristoforos in full hue and cry, still cursing and denouncing him, and that was the last time that he or any of the other Italians went into either of the churches.

  The dramatic pursuit of Sergeant Oliva through the alleyways by Father Kristoforos soon became the talk of the town, as did his subsequent visits to the homes of Christians.

  It was initially a relief to these Christians that Kristoforos was not asking for alms, but they were subjected instead to what amounted to a strict set of orders. His first port of call was the house of Charitos and Polyxeni. After they had kissed his hand, he said, “I have come to tell you strictly that you must have nothing to do with the Italians.”

  “Nothing, Patir?” repeated Charitos.

  “Nothing at all. If one of them touches you, you must go and wash immediately. If one of them talks to you, you must ignore him. You must avoid all contamination.”

  “But why, Father, if I may respectfully ask?”

  Kristoforos drew a deep breath, almost unable to conceptualise the loathing and disgust that was overwhelming him. “They are agents of the Devil,” he said at last.

  “Aren’t they Christians, Father?” asked Polyxeni. “I’ve seen them crossing themselves.”

  “They ar
e the Devil’s Christians. They don’t even cross themselves correctly. You must avoid them at all costs.”

  “Does the Devil have Christians?” asked Charitos, genuinely perplexed.

  “The Devil disguises himself as a Christian whenever it suits him,” said Kristoforos, with authority. “These people are schismatics and heretics.”

  “Yes?” said Charitos, and he exchanged glances with his wife, since neither of them understood these terms with any clarity. Kristoforos perceived their puzzlement, and explained, “They split away from the true Church. It was the worst crime against God.”

  “Worse than murder?” asked Charitos, slightly awed by the concept of a worst crime against God.

  “Worse than murder,” confirmed Kristoforos. “It was like a murder of the faith.”

  “What did they do, Father?” asked Polyxeni.

  The priest drew himself up to his full height, and inhaled portentously: “They put ‘and from the Son’ into the Nicene Creed.” His eyes sparkled once again with disdain and disgust. “And they use unleavened bread for the Eucharist!”

  The heinousness of these offences was quite lost on the two Christians, and Charitos said very hesitantly, “And this is very serious, Father?”

  “It couldn’t be more serious. This is the reason that we are irreconcilable. They will burn for it when God sends fire down the rivers at the Last Day. This is why you must take it on my authority that you shall have nothing to do with them at any time, to preserve yourself from the same danger of burning at the Last Day. These Roman Catholics have a false patriarch in Rome who is nothing but an Antichrist.”

  The word “Antichrist” held no particular meaning for Polyxeni and her husband, but they were nonetheless very impressed by it. It rang in their heads with truly satanic resonance.

  Father Kristoforos gave similar warnings to the inhabitants of every Christian household, and even interrupted his services to repeat them before the congregation. Every Friday he went down to the meydan to pronounce anathemas upon any Italians who might be there playing backgammon with the gendarmes, and as time went by perfected a reliable tirade in fairly inaccurate biblical Greek. Whilst the backgammon players raised their eyebrows, sighed and shook their heads, Kristoforos boomed out prophecies and curses along the lines of:

  “Schismatics of Rome, children of Christ who weeps for thee, pawns of tyrants, ye who are unjust, ye who are filthy, ye who are unrighteous, ye who are dogs and whoremongers, sorcerers and idolaters, ye whose hearts are unlit by the sun, ye that have no temple within, ye that shall not be saved, ye that work abominations, ye that defile the Virgin, ye that cannot drink the truth whatever thy thirst; ye are corrupt and have done nothing good, ye have done iniquity, ye have eaten my people like bread, ye have not called upon God, ye have encamped against our cities, ye have been put to shame and God hath despised thee and scattered thy bones. Behold the Lord shall give ear to the words of my mouth, for He is my helper, He is with them who uphold my soul, He shall reward evils unto mine enemies, He shall cut them off in His truth, for strangers are risen up against my people, oppressors seek after our trees of olive and our maidens, wickedness is in the midst of them. My soul is among lions, and I lie even with them that are set on fire, even the sons of men, whose teeth are spears and arrows, and their tongue a sharp sword.

  “Yea, in your heart ye work wickedness, ye weigh the violence of your hands upon the earth, ye are estranged from the womb, ye go astray as soon as ye be born, speaking lies, thy poison is like the poison of the serpent, ye are like the deaf adder that stoppeth her ear.

  “Schismatics of Rome, the Lord hath prepared a pit! He hath laid up a net to thy steps! Calamities shall overpass thee! Satan shall be loosed from his prison, and Gog and Magog shall go out to deceive the nations that are in the four quarters of the earth, to gather them together in battle; the number of them is as the sands of the sea, and fire shall come out of Heaven above the beloved city, and devour thee, and thou shalt be cast, yea, even the innocent and those as pure as babes, into the lake of oil and brimstone where the beast and the false prophet are, and thy flesh shall be divided from thy bones, for ye have not been found written in the book of life, and shall be cast into the flame!”

  From this grandiloquent beginning Father Kristoforos was perfectly capable of improvising a good hour’s worth of pyrotechnics. When he felt his voice beginning to crack he would resort to shaking his fists, grimacing, and thrusting out towards them the silver cross that he wore about his neck. It is true to say that he derived very great satisfaction from this holy pursuit, and slept better than he ever had before in life. Lydia thought him much more serene and gentle in the home, and the congregation found his new publicly fiery behaviour very impressive indeed, so that his status among them was considerably elevated.

  In those days, whenever the Christians discussed the presence of the Italians in the town, one would hear sentiments such as:

  “Well, you never would have believed it, if Father Kristoforos hadn’t warned us.”

  “Yes, they seem so nice, don’t they?”

  “It just goes to show, doesn’t it?”

  “The Antichrist, just fancy.”

  “Terrible, isn’t it? They put something into the Creed when they shouldn’t have.”

  “Well, I passed one yesterday, and I spat at his feet, and he gave me a look like the Devil, I can tell you.”

  The Italians, of necessity at first, and then by inclination, fraternised solely with the non-Christians. The backgammon players moved their venue first to the courtyard of the khan, and then when Kristoforos found them, back to the meydan, and then down to the amphitheatre, and then to the Letoun.

  Then, one day, after a very long and tedious rant from the priest which none but he could have understood, one of the gendarmes finally lost patience, leapt to his feet, turned about and pulled out his pistol.

  He pointed it straight at the priest’s chest. For one petrifying moment Kristoforos thought that he was going to be killed, and words failed him altogether. Everyone in the meydan froze, and watched helplessly as they waited for the seemingly inevitable horror that was about to come to pass. The Italian soldiers, who had left their weapons locked up in the khan, wondered whether or not they should intervene, and Sergeant Oliva got to his feet with the reluctant intention of doing so.

  Then the gendarme slowly lowered the weapon, and put it back into its holster. Grim-faced and still shaking with rage, he turned his back on the priest, and sat down to resume the game.

  The priest stood still for a moment, and then realised that he was violently trembling. Suddenly humiliated by his own fear, dry in the mouth and dizzy, urgently aware that he was going to have to empty his bowels and bladder, he turned and left, perturbed and ashamed by the way in which his faith and determination had suddenly deserted him when faced by imminent martyrdom.

  From that time Kristoforos sensibly left the Italians alone, but he never relented in his warnings to his flock. His troubled sleep returned, as did his disheartening dreams. His redemption would wait upon another day.

  CHAPTER 77

  I am Philothei (12)

  When Ibrahim was young he was very funny. My little brother Mehmetçik and his friend Karatavuk could perfectly imitate robins and blackbirds on their birdwhistles, and this was very admirable, and this was how they called to each other, but my beloved could imitate all the different bleats of goats. I think it was because he was a goatherd, and he came to recognise all of these bleats as he became more experienced. Once he very nearly got into trouble for bleating when Abdulhamid Hodja was speaking, and fortunately Abdulhamid forgave him just in time to prevent a beating.

  I have forgotten the names of some of these bleats, but they were things like the bleat of a goat who is looking for its kid, the bleat of a goat that has accidentally bitten on a stone, and the bleat of a goat that is unable to fart. He used to do these bleats for the entertainment of his parents’ visitors, and for anyone else who
asked. He wasn’t shy about doing them.

  As time went by he started to do bleats which were more and more absurd. The bleat of a goat that is thinking of becoming a Christian. The bleat of a goat that wishes to go to Telmessos and buy a waterpipe for its grandmother. The bleat of a goat that is too stupid to know how stupid it is. The bleat of a goat that had a good idea the day before and can’t remember what it was.

  The best bleat of all was the bleat of a goat with nothing to say. I can’t describe it, but it’s a bleat that anyone would recognise straight away, because it’s the kind of bleat that goats do when they’re all together munching away among the rocks, and there really is nothing to say, but they bleat anyway. Ibrahim used to say that what the bleat probably meant was “It’s me.”

  Ibrahim could do this bleat and just exaggerate it enough to make it very ridiculous, and he could do it in all sorts of versions and variants, and people never tired of hearing him do it, and it always made them laugh.

  I used to go out and harvest wild plants at about the same time every day, and Ibrahim knew this, and he would leave the goats in the charge of his dog Kopek, and he would scramble over the rocks, and I would know that he was coming because he had a version of the bleat that was just for me, and his game was that he would try to get as close as he could before I could spot him, and then he would pop up from behind a rock or a thorny oak and do the bleat very loudly, and the expression on his face when he did it was really just like a goat’s.

  It’s a miracle that we were never caught in all those years. The disgrace would have been unbearable, and I lived in a state of great nervousness. Quite often I went out to gather greens with Drosoula, and we trusted her not to tell anyone.

  What I loved about Ibrahim was that he always could make me laugh, and because of this it didn’t matter that he was only a goatherd. I also loved it when I heard him playing the kaval.