Rooftoppers

by Katherine Rundell

  Sophie looked up. Three birds were circling above Matteo’s head.

  “They know me, you see,” said Matteo. “Hold out your seed. Higher than that. It has to be higher than your shoulder, or they’ll try to crawl up your arm and onto your head.”

  A bird landed on her hand, then a second one.

  “Oh!” she breathed. They were heavy; their weight on her arms was the oddest delight. Their claws pinched at her skin. “Hello,” she breathed. “Bonsoir.” The rope swayed under her feet as the second bird settled on her wrist.

  Matteo shifted their balance. His face was muddy, but the pure white concentration showed through.

  “They like you,” said Matteo. “Look!”

  Sophie looked. One of the pigeons was shifting and flapping, up along her forearm toward her shoulder. It was as if it were testing her strength, she thought.

  “Please stay,” she whispered to the birds. The birds seemed to approve of her. “Don’t go. Stay.”

  The largest one pecked at the seed—which must have tasted rather sweaty by now, she thought—from the grooves in her palm.

  Matteo whistled again, and another bird circled down and landed on her head. Then a red-eyed dove landed on Matteo’s shoulder and pecked at the back of his neck.

  “I know this one,” said Matteo. “He’s called Elisabeth.”

  “He?”

  “He’s old. I met him when I was just a baby. I didn’t know how to tell the sex then; I thought he was a girl.”

  “He’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, I know. I didn’t think he’d come. He doesn’t like strangers.” Elisabeth left Matteo and flapped onto Sophie’s collarbone. He looked her in the eye. He bobbed his head. “He must think he knows you.”

  “Maybe he does!”

  “He can’t, though, can he? Silly Elisabeth.”

  Elisabeth flapped his wings against her cheek, but did not take off. To be approved by birds! thought Sophie. To be up in the center of the sky!

  “Matteo! This is too good!” She couldn’t think of words. “This is like music.”

  The city, Sophie thought, was different from what she had believed. “It is kinder than you think,” she whispered. A blue tit landed on her hand. Sophie felt bejeweled. A blue tit is better than a ring. It pecked at her earlobe. “It is wilder than you think.”

  18

  IT WAS HALF an hour before sophie would let Matteo lead on to the other side. It was only the threat of the rising sun that made her give in. As soon as Matteo had backed onto the roof, and tugged her after him, Sophie’s legs started to shake. She staggered three steps toward the center and collapsed.

  “Are you all right?” said Matteo. “Do you need help?”

  “No, I think I’m fine; it’s just my legs that aren’t.” She poked her calf muscle, and it gave a spasm. “I think they’ll be normal again in a second. I’ll just sit here, if that’s all right.”

  “You’re an odd color. Do you want to sleep for a minute? I have a blanket. Or, it’s a sack, but—”

  “No, I couldn’t sleep. I’ll just sit.”

  “Right. I’ll make a fire.”

  “Where? Here?”

  “Of course not! Don’t be stupid. It has to be by the chimney stack, so the smoke looks like it comes from the chimney. You stay there. Don’t go anywhere.”

  It was a few minutes before her legs would let her stand up and look around. The rooftop was as large as a town square, and smooth slate. Sophie stamped, tentatively. Her legs seemed solid again. A plume of smoke rose from the center of the roof. Sophie walked—or rather, limped—toward it.

  Matteo was squatting behind the chimney stack, feeding a fire with wood. From the look of it, it had once been a chair. He wore a sack over his shoulders.

  “Matteo!” Sophie’s eyes widened. “Is this all yours?” She hoped he wouldn’t be able to see in the dark how impressed she was.

  “Of course. Who else’s?” At Matteo’s feet was a pile of arrows, tied in bundles. Neatly stacked against the chimney there was a pile of apples, a tin saucepan and a kettle, a heap of rough-cut wooden spoons, glass jars filled with nuts. There were two sacks; Sophie peeked inside. One was filled with leaves, and another filled with bones.

  “Here. Sit.” He handed her a cushion.

  “Did you make this?” It was sacking on the outside, but soft and thick.

  “Of course.”

  “What’s it made of?” Sophie kneaded it. It was softer than anything they had at home. “What’s the stuffing?”

  “It’s just pigeon . . . ach, fluff. I don’t know the word.”

  “Down?”

  “Non, not down. Down is like . . . not up. That soft white you get under the pigeon feathers, you know? But,” he said, “I use the outer feathers too, of course. I use everything. Even the bones.”

  “You don’t let them go when you’ve taken their feathers?”

  “Let them go? Of course I don’t let them go. I mean . . . they’re dead. I don’t pluck living pigeons. That would be very difficult for me and very confusing for the pigeon.”

  “So you eat them?”

  “Yes. I cook them and I eat them.” He took out a knife and held it out to her. “With this. Sometimes, if it’s raining and I’m hungry enough, I skip the cooking.”

  “Do you eat the bones?”

  “I boil them for soup.”

  “Is it nice?”

  “Non. It’s disgusting. It’s like glue. But it’s better than nothing.”

  “And the outer feathers? What do you do with them?” He was such a peculiar creature that she would not have been surprised if he had worn them, as a cloak. She would not have been surprised, in fact, if he had sewn them into wings.

  “Look. That. There. No, there.”

  Farther along the roof, stretched between the two chimney stacks, there was a sheet. Sophie jogged over to look more closely. It was sewn with layer upon layer of pigeon feathers. It was oddly greasy, but beautiful. Under it was a bed made of sacks. She kneaded the mattress. It was the same soft down as her cushion.

  “The feathers are waterproof,” said Matteo. She had not heard him come up behind her. “It works like a tent. Only it was free.”

  It wouldn’t be warm, thought Sophie. It would be no real protection from the wind. “Matteo, what do you do in winter? How do you stay warm?”

  “I don’t.” He shrugged. “You get used to it. You don’t get to like it.”

  “Couldn’t you go to the orphanage? Just for the winter?”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I did, once. There was a fight, on a rooftop in the north, and I got cut. A bad one. It turned septic.” As he spoke, he tucked his right hand under his left armpit. “I thought I had no choice.” Matteo poked the fire too hard. It sparked, and Sophie ducked. He said, “There were iron bars on the windows. I can pick a lock, but nobody can pick an iron bar.”

  “But why would there be bars? Did people try to break in?”

  “Non. Children tried to break out. But once they know you exist, they don’t let you leave. It’s illegal to be homeless in France, did you know that?”

  Sophie hadn’t known. It sounded like the craziest law in the world. “But you left, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Through a chimney. I should never have gone in the first place. They’re still looking for me—for me, and for some others. They put notices of runaways in the post offices, did you know that?”

  “But why? Why did you run away, I mean? What happened?”

  “Nothing. Nothing happened. It was like hell: the same thing every day. They shouted if we talked to each other at meals. They shouted if we laughed.”

  “Really?” Sophie was stunned. “I mean, literally?”

  “Oui. You have no idea, Sophie. It was like being nailed shut. I can’t risk going on the ground again. It is better for people not to know I exist.” He turned away, and ran a twig under his toenails.

  Sophie wasn’t stupid. She
turned back to the feather tent. “Well, I think this is wonderful, up here! I think I’d never leave this rooftop, if I was you.” She stroked the feathers. Water lay in droplets on them, but the slate underneath was dry. “It’s fantastic! I wish I lived here. It’s perfect.”

  He shrugged. “It smells in the summer.” But he had that look that Charles got when he was secretly pleased. He said, “Seagulls have the best feathers—look, there”—he gestured to the sheet, to the white patches—“because they’re naturally greasy, and water runs off them. But you don’t get many seagulls, except after storms. Pigeon feathers aren’t bad. They’re thick, and I add duck grease to them, when I have it.”

  “But how do you catch them?”

  Matteo looked at her, very hard. “How do you think?”

  “With . . . with a trap?” Sophie had no idea. With a knife? With his hands? With his teeth? Nothing, she felt, would surprise her.

  “I’ll show you. I haven’t eaten today, anyway.”

  Matteo reached inside the chimney and pulled out a bow. He reached under the mattress, and pulled out a bundle of arrows. “The arrows blow away if you don’t tie them,” he said. “It gets windy up here.” He fitted the arrow on the bow, and his face flicked into that listening expression she had seen on the tightrope. It shut her out as effectively as a door. He turned his back to Sophie. There were three pigeons roosting on the chimney stack on the rooftop they had come from; suddenly Matteo’s arm snapped back, and an arrow shrilled across the space and struck the middle pigeon in its neck. The other two pigeons took off, shrieking in fear.

  “Always aim for the middle pigeon, if there is one,” he said. He ignored the shock in Sophie’s face. “It gives you more chance of hitting. And aim against the wind.”

  Matteo jogged to the edge of the rooftop and crouched to peer over. Then he tipped himself forward. Sophie watched, certain that he was going to die, but at the last minute he grasped the rope and swung, hand over hand, to the opposite rooftop. He pulled himself up, stuffed the pigeon down the front of his shirt (So that explains the red patches, Sophie thought), and swung back over the night sky. The whole there-and-back took less than two minutes.

  He dumped the bird at her feet. “That’s how I catch them,” he said, and he wiped his bloody palms in his hair. “I never said I was nice,” he said.

  Sophie tried to look unconcerned, unimpressed. “Can I help pluck it?” she said.

  “Non.”

  “Why not? Please?”

  “You can’t help. You can do it. This isn’t a dinner party.”

  Luckily, Sophie had read about plucking birds. You started at the neck and worked backward. “I’ve never had pigeon,” she said. She pulled out a handful of the feathers. The bird’s skin was like an old man’s, and she tried not to wince. “What does it taste like?” She tried to pluck briskly.

  “Like smoky chicken,” said Matteo. “Like heaven. But we shouldn’t be talking.”

  “Oh! Sorry. Will somebody hear?”

  “Non. Not this high. But aren’t you supposed to be listening for music?”

  While Matteo gutted and skewered the bird, Sophie listened. What he had said was true. By standing or squatting on different parts of the rooftop, she could hear snatches of conversation and snippets of music from half a mile away.

  She circled the roof in a half crouch, listening to the sounds that came on the wind. She heard an argument, full of what must have been French swearing, and some drunken singing, and a barking dog. Mostly, though, there was just night-silence, and nightingales.

  It was a shock when Matteo called, “Sophie!”

  “Yes! What is it? Do you hear something?”

  “Non. The food’s ready.”

  Matteo’s table manners were not the kind that win prizes. He tore at the pigeon with his back teeth, showing lots of gum, and ate with his mouth open. She tried to follow suit, but the fat on the meat was ferociously hot. The skin on the roof of her mouth was flaking off.

  She looked around the rooftop, and at Matteo’s small piles of possessions. “Matteo, do you have a fork?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Don’t you need one?”

  “I’ve got fingers, haven’t I? And teeth?”

  “But don’t you burn yourself?”

  “Never.” He held out his hands to her. “You see? Heatproof.” The palms and fingertips were thickly calloused. “I don’t burn.”

  “I’d quite like a fork,” said Sophie. “I’m sorry. It’s just, my fingers are blistering.” She needed her fingers to play the cello. “And do you have any water?”

  “For drinking, or for your fingers?”

  “For both.”

  “Let me see them.” He took her hand in his. “Your hands are too soft.” Then he spat on his fingers and rubbed them over hers.

  “Keep spitting on them,” he said. “It helps. Here. This is just for drinking.” He handed her a tin can half-filled with water. “It’s rainwater. I can’t waste it on burns. And don’t drink it all.”

  Sophie sipped. It tasted of rust, but not bad at all.

  “Right,” he said. “Stay there. I’ll make you a fork.”

  Matteo tore open the pigeon carcass and tugged out the wishbone and one long leg bone. “Pass the kettle,” he said. Apparently untroubled by the boiling water, he dipped the bones in the kettle, added a tiny pinch of soot, and scrubbed.

  “Soot acts as soap,” he said.

  “Does it?” She looked at his face, which was black with dirt. “Are you sure you’re not thinking of . . . um, soap?”

  “You’ll see.” He kept scrubbing. “I’m right.” And he was right. Soon the two bones shone white. Then he fished some string from his pocket.

  “You see. String is the only thing that is never, never boring. String, and birds.”

  He tied the wishbone to the top of the leg bone with a figure eight. “A fork!” he said. “Voilà.”

  19

  SOPHIE SLEPT MOST of the next day, and woke in her own bed to find it was raining. It rose to a storm in the night. Sophie counted the seconds between the lightning and thunder, “One, two”—and then the boom. She did not dare go out on the rooftop. The next day was no better. Charles trudged out in an inadequate borrowed raincoat to look for lawyers.

  “I’ll keep lookout, if you’ll let me use your window,” Sophie told him. “Come back soon, all right? And don’t get spotted.” She rubbed his sleeve, which was too short by an inch.

  “I won’t. And you, Sophie, make sure you don’t leave this room,” said Charles. “Unless you absolutely have to. If you need to pee, use the chamber pot. I don’t want the other guests to see you.”

  So all day Sophie sat by Charles’s window with a cup of cocoa in her lap, and kept lookout. She was watching for policemen, and for cello players. Almost nobody went by, and those who did were hidden by umbrellas. She strained her ears for cello music, until her head roared and she heard requiems behind every horse and cart. Every few minutes she crossed and uncrossed her fingers.

  The cup of cocoa grew a skin, and then grew cold. Sophie did not notice. The rain did not stop.

  When Sophie went to bed, the rain was torrential. She woke again, though, to hear the clock striking two, and the downpour slowed to a drizzle. The clouds were blowing across the moon, and the moonlight flashed on and off inside her room, like Morse code.

  Sophie shoved back her covers and jumped up. She felt as awake as day. She pulled on her stockings, and over them her trousers, and two jerseys. Then she cut the tips off the stockings and rolled them back to expose her toes. She clambered out of her skylight, leaving it open, dripping onto the bed.

  Matteo was sitting cross-legged by his fire, leaning against the largest chimney stack. He had a knife in one hand, and something pinkish in the other. It looked suspiciously like a skinned rat. Sophie whistled, and he dropped whatever it was into the embers and ran to fetch her across the tightrope.

  When they reached the fire, the
animal was smoking. Matteo swore.

  “Ach. Rat is never delicious, but burnt rat is disgusting.”

  “What’s rat like?”

  Matteo sat, and pulled her down beside him. “Sit. I didn’t think you’d come, in the rain. It’s like . . . hedgehog.”

  “I’ve never had hedgehog, either.”

  “Have you eaten rabbit?” He threw a sack over her knees, and pulled one over his shoulders.

  “Yes, I’ve had rabbit.” The sack was wet, but Sophie did not say so. His sack, she could see, was wetter.

  “Well, it’s not like rabbit, but it’s not not like rabbit. Here. You can try it.”

  Sophie took it, sniffed it. It did not smell inspiring.

  Matteo said, “Leave some for me, though. More than half. I’m bigger.”

  “Is this breakfast?” she asked him. “Or . . . dinner?”

  “This is lunch. I had breakfast when I woke up. Sort of.”

  “When was that?” Sophie nibbled at the rat’s thigh. The rat tasted of charcoal and horse tails. She swallowed with an effort. “It’s . . . not bad,” she said. “Here, though. It’s yours.”

  “I don’t know. Sunset. So, about nine o’clock.” Matteo tore at the rat with his teeth. “I have supper at five o’clock in the morning. If there is any supper.”

  “Why wouldn’t there be?”

  He shrugged. “It’s been a bad week for food.” His face, up close, was tight-pulled and thin, and he said, “I’m tired. Perhaps you’d better not stay long.”

  “I’m so sorry!” Sophie cursed inwardly. “I should have thought to bring food.” She had forgotten that he might be hungry. “I didn’t realize. But, Matteo, please let me stay. I need to be up here to listen.” Her skin was burning. It always did when she thought of her mother. “Please.”

  “Fine.” Matteo flopped onto his back and stared up at the stars. “I’m too hungry to talk, though.”

  “Why is it worse than usual?”

  “Why?” He half-sat, and stared at her incredulously. “The rain! The rain, obviously.”

  Sophie lay down, a little way apart. In the moonlight Matteo’s face was the color of old snow. “Does the rain make hunting harder?” she said.