THIS IS PART OF MY PUBLISHED BOOK "ATHENS"-2004
The Bird
Athens, Greece, 1980
(This story is part of my book ATHENS, iUniverse, 2004.)
In 1980 I spent fourteen months in Greece, hoping against hope that I would be allowed to stay.
I was working on my immigration papers as well as my English as I attended the Hellenic-American Institute in Athens Greece.
After my relatives kicked me out for overstaying my welcome, I rented a small efficiency apartment, a garsoniera, on the first floor of a sturdy, five-story building located at the toe of Licavitos hill in the middle of Athens.
I loved the garsoniera immediately—a small kitchen area, a bathroom, and an airy, medium-sized room with polished hardwood floors and a French door opening on a small balcony. The building was very well-kept and clean, in sharp contrast with everything else I'd seen. And the rent was the same as others charged, about 5,000 drachmas (fifty dollars)a month.
But my biggest luck was to meet and become friends with Theresa.
Theresa and her mother owned the building. Theresa was the daughter of a former Greek General, and had been highly educated abroad.
At the time I was in Athens, Teresa and her husband Vasili had had some family problems. Vasili had moved with another woman to Patra, while Teresa, her mother, and her daughter Rania, remained in Athens.
I spent many days and evenings with Teresa and her family. They became my "away from home family." I learned how to speak Greek, and Teresa, who had influential connections, helped me with my immigration papers.
Teresa's family had a bird, a multicolored parrot with bright yellow and deep blue plumage, called Vasili, after Teresa's estranged husband.
Evenings, while we sat around the dinning table or watched television, Vasili the bird roamed freely through the living room, responding to Theresa's barbs, whistling, walking out onto the open terrace that wrapped the living room.
One weekend, Teresa and her family went out of town and left the parrot in my care. I was looking forward to spending some fun time with the bird in my little apartment, but was not meant to be. Vasili did not recognize my voice and did not respond to me. He didn't whistle; he was sad; he missed his own apartment and his mistress.
Winter can be cold in Athens—not snowy, but cold and windy, and heat was in short supply. On Sunday morning, I opened the balcony door and took Vasili's cage out for a major clean-out, as I had seen Theresa do.
Without a second thought, I opened the cage door and let the bird out onto the open balcony in order to change the newspapers, clean the cage, and refresh his water. At first, Vasili did not want to leave his cage; I had to push him out. Then he stood there on the balcony, looking at me, brooding. I did my job: I changed the newspapers, cleaned the cage, changed the water, and expected him to willingly enter his newly cleaned home.
Not so! He had no intention of entering the cage, and as I prodded him he started to peck at my hands with his big beak.
It was cold outside, despite the sunshine, and I was impatient. I had not had a chance to shower, or dress for the day, or even comb my hair. I was still wearing the long flannel nightgown and bright red, embroidered Chinese slippers my mother had sent me.
Suddenly, I got scared, thinking that the bird might fly away; the balcony was open, after all. Then Theresa would kill me for sure, after she threw me out in the street. I started to panic and pushed Vasili harder toward the cage.
NO WAY!
The bells were ringing at Saint Nicholas Church, down the road; well-dressed people came out on the street below the balcony where I stood in my nightgown, fighting with a parrot.
What was I to do?
Finally, good sense came to me and I carried the cage inside, hoping Vasili would follow. It worked! He liked his house too much to let it go away from him. He followed me in, and immediately, I closed the door.
First round! I won!
Now, I thought, came the easy part: I had to coax the bird into the cage, and quickly, as I had big plans for the day, and no time to fiddle with a reluctant bird.
But Vasili had different ideas. Instead of going into his cage, he started to follow me around and pinch my feet with his thick, hooded beak.
Now he was the aggressor, and he was in charge of the situation, like the man he was.
I panicked again and jumped on top of my unmade bed in order to escape Vasili, but Vasili flew right after me on the bed pecking at me feet. (So he can fly, I was thinking, while I tried to elude him.)
A scene from the Hitchcock's movie The Birds came to my mind and I was afraid that the bird was going to go for my eyes next.
In desperation, I snatched my overcoat and ran outside the room, closing the door after me.
Round Two! Vasili Won!
In the hallway outside my apartment I took a look at myself: the overcoat was knee length; my nightgown was floor length; I still had my red slippers on my feet; and my hair was a mess. I probably look like a madwoman, I thought. Nonetheless, I decided to venture outside. It was only a few blocks to the apartment of my aunts Maria and Pipitza. And I really needed help.
What a sight I must have been for the people on the street going to church!
When I arrived at my aunts' apartment, Maria had already left for church, but Pipitza agreed to come back with me to the garsoniera and help with the bird.
When we arrived, the room looked like a war zone—bright plumage all over, the bed a mess, and chairs upended from my mad dash for the door. Vasili was pacing the room, angry.
Pipitza approached the bird with outstretched arms, cooing soft words, and a miracle happened: the bird stood still until Pipitza enclosed it in her loving hands.
"This bird is scared to death," Pipitza said reproachfully, "I can feel his beating heart!"
With soothing, childlike words to the bird, Pipitza put it into its cage, locking the gate.
Round Three! Pipitza won!
"What happened?" I wanted to know.
"Let's say you're not a bird person. Birds are like small children: they instinctively know who loves them and who doesn't. Then, you infuriated him with your red fingernails and red slippers," said Pipitza looking sideways at me.
"I didn't know that," was all I could say.
* * *
This story has a moral to it: caring for somebody requires love. Dutifulness is not enough.
REA-SILVIA COSTIN, P.E..2004
