Red Birds

by Mohammed Hanif

  ‘But it’s related. I’ve been having these dreams about wild animals walking around in my courtyard. There is always a fox stuck to the windowsill, not really wanting to come in but not going away either. I wonder what that says about my mental state. But first tell me how close did you get to the lions?’

  She looks up, startled, amused and then stern again as if this kind of intimate conversation is not part of our arrangement.

  But then she relents. ‘We were on this safari,’ she says in a grave tone. ‘We were in these vehicles, very well protected, with iron bars that could be electrified if they came too close and a guard with a shotgun on every van. But it was nice to be close to nature, miles and miles of shrub, real caves. It was all very relaxing.’

  Maybe that should be your natural habitat, I think, still resentful of her per diem. Maybe you should live behind iron bars, which can be electrified with the flick of a switch and a man with a shotgun should stand behind you all your life. I imagine a hungry lioness chewing her shoulder-length hair. I imagine someone throwing twenty-dollar bills at her. I drink from the paper cup and imagine a lioness smacking her lips.

  She is still scribbling in her file. She ignores me. ‘We didn’t really see any lions, only footprints and a half-eaten buffalo that the lioness had supposedly killed. You never know if these safari guides are telling the truth. But it was wonderful. You need to get away from all this,’ she vaguely moves her hand. I’m not sure what exactly she wants me to get away from.

  ‘I think my father sold my brother.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Father took him to the Hangar and then he never came back,’ I say.

  ‘Did he go against his will?’

  ‘No, he was willing, he wanted to, he insisted. But Father Dear should have known better. There were boys before him who went and never came back. Father Dear believed he had a special relationship with the people at the Hangar. Why did he trust them?’

  ‘Did your father bring home any money? What is your proof of the transactional nature of this incident?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard of fraudulent deals? What makes you think white people always gonna keep their promises?’

  ‘Maybe you are right. And how do you feel about this?’

  ‘I think they should have given us compensation for our house they destroyed. But all we got was some blue plastic sheets and a job in the Hangar. I think Bro Ali should have been given a medal or something. I think he single-handedly ended the war. He went to the Hangar and all the bombings stopped. They even shut down the Hangar but my brother didn’t come back.’

  She scribbles in her notebook. ‘Your brother is not the only one missing.’

  ‘Yes, yes I know, many boys in my class have gone too. The boy who sat on my left, he used to draw for me in my art class. The boy who sat on my right, he used to help me with maths,’ I say impatiently.

  ‘How many boys?’ she asks.

  ‘Many,’ I say. ‘Why should I count? I have only one brother.’

  She ignores my answer. ‘Some of their people have also gone missing,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard rumours that many of the people who worked in the Hangar are not there anymore. Some disappeared in the desert. But these are military matters. I assure you there are processes in place which work by and large. They have categories for the disappeared, there are those who are jet black, there are greys and there are white. Whites always come back; some even get compensation.’

  She is obviously not gonna tell me the whole truth, however many times I remind her that Bro Ali hasn’t come back and he is whiter than white.

  ‘All I can say is that when the world shifts, when the tectonic plates of history readjust, some people fall through the cracks,’ she continues. ‘We only focus on death and destruction but it’s a basic fact about life that in these circumstances people go missing. You can help me study the phenomenon. Please tell me how you feel about this?’

  ‘I feel I’m gonna have to fix that. I am gonna have to bring him back. I am gonna have to abduct him from his abductors if I have to.’

  ‘And where are you going to find these abductors if they have all gone and disappeared as well?’

  ‘Well they sent you, didn’t they? We’re gonna find them together,’ I say.

  ‘You are not the only one grieving, there are others missing, and their families. Have you asked them how they feel about it?’

  ‘I have only one bro and his name is Ali. I am not gonna let anyone’s feelings get in the way of what I have to do.’ She wants me to go on. I tell her about Mutt and his broken leg. She accuses me of cruelty to animals. ‘That’s one classic symptom of PTSD,’ she says. ‘Soldiers traumatized in conflict areas go home and take it out on their pets. Sometimes on their fiancées. Sometimes on other people’s pets. But mostly on their own pets.’

  I terminate the session. ‘You have no idea,’ I say. ‘You don’t know my Mutt. He’s the one who has been cruel to me.’

  I better go and get Mutt before the scorpions devour him. I better prove to her who is being cruel to whom.

  I better show her who is the real heartbreaker in this place.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ellie

  The Jeep Cherokee with the fat, fading USAID logo and a limp white flag stops a few metres away from me. I am on my knees now, not quite dead but fading fast. Is this driverless vehicle another mirage? Has my mind gone so far that it is remote controlling vehicles for my own rescue? It is so close I can see the diesel fumes evaporating in the background, I can feel the reverberation of its engine under my feet; hell, I can inhale the diesel fumes. I shudder in hope and collapse on the sand.

  At some point even hope gives up on itself. I have blisters all over my body and my insides feel like they’ve been scrubbed with sandpaper; parched and cleansed of any residues of fear.

  Extreme dehydration can cause pleasant delusions. I have been to some nice places in my head since I stumbled upon the mutt. I have been inside a pristine marble-floored bathroom with running water; I have almost opened glass-fronted fridges full of cold beer; I have seen my dead comrades, they are kind but distant, they have fed me fries dipped in gravy; many a helicopter has scooped me up and flown me back to the base; I have even had a change of clothes, gotten into my Nissan Sunny and driven home, knocked at the door and waited for Cath to come and take me into her arms. She has scolded me for being late.

  I am beyond dreaming now. A driverless vehicle driving in to rescue you sounds like a third-world militia member’s idea of the good life. Not even a soldier, only an enemy combatant surrounded on all sides, out of ammo, could dream up such a miracle. Or an American zoomie lost in a desert.

  I am a mid-ranking officer. I am not falling for it.

  I don’t open my eyes when I hear the door of the jeep creak open, it sounds as if someone is kicking it from inside. I hug the whimpering mutt and let my mind drift to a place where children on a see-saw urge each other to go higher. I might comfort a helpless creature in my last moments. I hear Cath laugh somewhere in the past. Suit yourself, here, take my pillow too. At last, a faint smile spreads across my lips. Cath might have occasionally been sarcastic about my weakness for small comforts, hogging the duvet, scooping up the last bit of dessert for myself, pouring myself the last drops of wine from the bottle, pretending to be asleep when the doorbell rang in the morning; she knew me and I miss her knowing me. But she’ll have to forgive me now. We were petty to each other in life. In death we can be magnanimous. I’ll never miss her again, I’ll never be scolded again; all will be oblivion soon.

  Goodbye earth. Goodbye war. Goodbye peace. Goodbye frozen margaritas.

  First comes a kick in my ribs, then another. A small figure hovers over me, bends down and snatches the mutt away from me. Then another kick, this time with less force but more contempt. I hear English. ‘You were gonna steal my dog. You dog thief.’ I have been accused of many things in life but stealing stray dogs isn’t one of them. But the
boy standing over me has made up his mind. He is caressing, kissing the mutt and periodically prodding me in my ribs. ‘You steal my dog. Can’t you see he is injured? You brute. Rot in hell. You are already rotting in hell. God has punished you.’

  Slowly it dawns on me that this boy standing over my head has driven over looking for his dog and now believes that I tried to steal his dog. Finally, after eight days of wandering in the desert my saviour has arrived and he is a very angry teenager.

  I raise my hand in the air to refute the charge. I almost faint again with the sheer effort.

  ‘If you are not gonna steal the dog, what are you gonna do so far away from Camp? Only mad men wander around in the desert dressed like that.’

  The boy is possessed by the certainty of a fifteen-year-old who can drive. He is wearing a soccer shirt, white shorts and spikey boots. I am glad that he hasn’t used the spiked sole of his shoe on my ribs to convey his displeasure. He seems like someone dressed for a soccer game rather than someone looking for his beloved dog in the desert.

  ‘What is this uniform? Are you a scorpion hunter? Lizard lover?’

  The boy, it seems, has just noticed my flying suit and is now accusing me of being a scavenger in uniform, with a sideline in stealing dogs.

  ‘Did they leave you behind? Because they have all gone.’ The boy gives me one last kick, this time in my buttocks, spits on the sand, picks up the mutt with one hand, kisses the mutt’s face and starts to walk off.

  I am alert now and fully awake. This is no mirage. You don’t get kicked in the ribs in a mirage. I look at the boy and now I can tell that he is no more than fourteen or fifteen years old at most. He is opening the door of the Cherokee and settling his mutt on the passenger seat. He goes around the jeep, opens the door and disappears into the driver’s seat. How is he even allowed to drive? Where are his parents? How can they let this little kid drive around in an SUV in the middle of the desert? I have heard stories about rich Arabs’ love for luxury vehicles, gold-plated Lamborghinis and Range Rovers fitted with Gucci seat covers and matching prayer mats. But even by their silly standards this is absolutely bonkers. And I’m not even sure if he is an Arab.

  ‘Hey,’ I scream, and realize that it comes out as a puff of hot dry air. I raise myself on my knees and wave both my hands.

  ‘You can’t leave me here.’

  I can’t see my saviour. He has disappeared into his seat.

  The boy starts the engine, it coughs, a blast from the silencer, the jeep shudders and the engine refuses to start. Another attempt at starting the jeep, the sullen sound of the engine not giving a shit about the ignition. The boy comes out now, his eyebrows arched in irritation, someone not used to an engine not obeying him. He thumps the bonnet with both his hands and then with some effort manages to lift it and dives into the engine.

  I see it as a sign. Still startled with the boy’s arrival and then his determination to drive away with his injured dog, his insistence on acknowledging my existence as nothing more than a petty criminal, and then the jeep’s refusal to start; is it the divine intervention I have been waiting for?

  Sometimes God can manifest himself as a mechanical failure.

  I manage to drag myself up and hobble towards the Cherokee with the footballer boy half hanging out of the bonnet. I almost fall over the bonnet, my face next to the boy who is cleaning a plug with a toothpick. I finally see his face clearly. The boy has wide brown eyes, a hint of hair on his upper lip, and dark brown hair that keeps falling over his eyes. The boy ignores me and goes on cleaning the plug till I can’t take it anymore and say in a hissing voice: Have you got some water?

  ‘I have checked the water. It’s full. No problem.’

  I lunge towards the carburettor as the boy watches me. With trembling hands I manage to remove the cover; the water is boiling hot and it singes my tongue as I try to lap it up with my tongue through the tiny opening.

  ‘Don’t be an animal,’ the boy says, putting the plug back and wiping his hands with an oily rag. ‘Drinking water is inside the jeep.’

  I can’t decide whether I want to hug the boy or slap him. I also realize that the boy had no plans to leave me here. He’s just trying to fuck with my mind. Everything is trying to fuck with my mind. Gingerly I move towards the Cherokee, open its rear door and see a rubber flask, a standard UN Food Programme rubber flask. I pick it up, the water sloshes inside it. The flask is ice cold.

  CHAPTER 10

  Mutt

  I saw a red bird shoot up from the sand before the white man in green overalls rose out of the sand. I am not scared of ghosts but I don’t like to hang out with them either. He came over and cuddled me. It was awkward. He was one of those men who don’t know how to pick up a baby, how to pet a dog, how to be a man. He handled me as if I was a precious vase.

  And I can’t smell this man. He doesn’t smell of boiled cabbage like the ones at Hangar used to smell. What kind of man has no smell? Or have I lost my one remaining talent? To smell is to survive. I don’t smell anything on this man. Only ghosts and spies don’t smell. I don’t believe in ghosts, they’re something invented by my human companions to console themselves that when you die you don’t really die. When humans die, and it doesn’t matter if they choke on their own vomit, or die while trying to rescue a kitten, they go to heaven or hell. When Mutts die they just stay dead. As for the spies, they have already left this place – there is nothing left to spy on.

  Not being able to smell gives me a throbbing headache. And why is he still trying to cuddle me?

  I don’t need your clumsy love, I want to tell him. I need some aspirin.

  These red birds worry me. They are everywhere. What worries me even more is that nobody seems to be able to do anything about them.

  I saw the first red bird on the rooftop the day Mother Dear went on a cooking strike. Her stated position, just like that of any professional agitator, was only a front: she said there was no salt and so she wouldn’t cook. But it was a deceptive little game. What she was really saying was bring me my son or go die, starve yourselves to death or go eat flour and raw meat. Or learn to cook your own food.

  She is good that way. Not wearing her depression like a badge of honour, but turning it into a subtle form of resistance. If she had been born in another place she would be a socialist leader ruling a mid-sized nation with an iron hand. But here she is just a mother with a plastic rosary.

  I can usually smell birds before I see them, most birds smell like mischief, most of them except crows, who smell like other people’s dirty secrets. But that day I didn’t smell anything. I was surveying the sky, and trust me, when you live here you learn to survey the skies without thinking, because here things fall from skies. I saw a smudge of red on the rooftop as my eyes focused. I became aware of its presence. It was no bigger than a house sparrow, but unlike house sparrows that can’t sit still and believe that life is a series of festivities, the red bird was very, very still. And it had no smell. I snivelled, suddenly scared that maybe I had lost my mojo, my olfactory capabilities, and caught only a faint whiff of sorrow but that, not surprisingly, emanated from the kitchen. That’s a laughable notion – this house is drowning in the stench of sorrows. When Mother Dear does her daily laundry you can smell despair wafting through the washing line. She pours tears in her curry, so sad is that woman. Why does she need salt, she could just cook with her tears? Sadness doesn’t worry me. Sadness is practically my sibling in this household.

  I don’t want to be an alarmist, but one has duties as a son of the soil and as a responsible family member, so I did what one does when one is puzzled by a presence and has to tell the others to watch out; I raised my head and let out a quick succession of warnings. Mother Dear looked up at the sky, shook her head and got busy with her sad enterprise. In order to appear useful we sometimes invent work when no work is needed. She was ironing bed sheets with an unplugged iron.

  I gave a long whiny woof which, in this household, is generally consider
ed a sign that one is serious and not fooling around – the world is coming to an end, the bombs are going to start falling again, or the cat is eyeing the milk pot. Mother Dear threw her slipper at me. I managed to barely avoid it. Any bird, even the stubborn kites, would have fled after this little commotion. Most birds in these parts are safety-first-type creatures who don’t trust the human race – a wise policy one must add, but a privilege not available to me. But this red little beauty sat there without a care, not fluttering, not even opening its wings to take flight, just in case. One felt one was losing one’s powers of persuasion.

  Then Momo came in and I gave another yelp and implored him to look up, and he did look up and shook his head, went out and disappeared under his Cherokee.

  I was a bit slow to get this at first: eventually I realized that not everybody can see the birds. There are things that I see that others don’t because they are not observant like me. My brains might have gone a bit woozy after that horrible accident, but it hasn’t affected my eyesight. But let me emphasize that I have never claimed any special powers. Mutts don’t believe in magic, Mutts can’t afford to take the spiritual route in life. But one can always be tempted to think along these lines.

  Because I am thinking if I can see them, maybe, just maybe, I do have some special powers. It’s a tempting thought, but first we must consider other explanations. Maybe others see them in other colours. The earthy brown of canaries or boot-polish black of the crows. Maybe they actually see these red birds in red and don’t think there is anything strange about their stillness, about their otherworldliness, as if they are flying through this place but don’t need its polluted waters, don’t want to feed on its charity-food grain.

  Later, people would give explanations. Doctor, our man of science, will have the most logical and scientific explanation. Depleted uranium. Common canaries have been drinking water contaminated with low-strength uranium and have mutated into red birds, basically canaries dipped in colour and made dumber. I have this to say to Doctor. I have drunk from the same pond, I even relieve myself in the same pond, why isn’t my ass red yet?