10.

SUMMER

1992

BUT PRETTY BIRD was beginning to falter.

The seed that he ate had been taken along with their other packed possessions back in Grbavica, and Irena’s grandmother had none stored away. Markets were closed, smashed, or looted, and when Irena prowled around a couple of ruins she could find no birdseed, anyway. The Zarics knocked on the doors of apartments that were still inhabited—and, in fact, knocked in the doors or windows of a couple more, looking for birdseed—but found none. They tried to induce Pretty Bird to eat cracker crumbs, gnarls of gristle from canned meats, bugs, and cookie crumbs. But he would pick around them with disinterest, eating just enough to be sociable. Surely something more delectable would turn up; it always had.

“Let us just keep trying,” said Mr. Zaric. “Pretty Bird will have to eat something when he gets hungry.”

But within a month Pretty Bird was no longer making siren, whistle, grinder, kettle, or doorbell noises. He had stopped impersonating rifle fire, artillery shells, tank-tread grinding, and sniper shots. Irena had accepted the sight and smell of dead friends, relatives, and strangers. But Pretty Bird had always been the one in their lives whose fantastically incongruous bleats, burrs, bells, and whistles had reminded them that the world could sometimes be added up in different ways. Irena found that looking at her suddenly silent, irrepressible gray bird cast a gloom she had not expected among all the others.

         

A NEW MARKET of sorts was operating during the morning hours on an open block behind the old central market. People raided their apartments—or somebody else’s—for items they could trade. A man who had six sets of undershorts could set out two pairs and hope to barter them for ten razor blades. Or a man with twenty razor blades might decide to shave just twice a week, and trade ten of those blades for a half pound of sugar.

War had rewritten all values. Toasters, televisions, and washing machines were worthless in a place where there was no predictable electricity. Elaborate bed frames were valuable only if they could be hacked apart for firewood. But batteries could power radios and flashlights; they were more precious than brooches. Cigarettes curbed hunger and curtailed tedium. They brought more in trade than, say, cucumbers, which in a city that had no refrigeration would quickly go bad. Cucumbers were no longer produce but a perishable luxury. Cigarettes were no longer a nasty habit but hard currency.

Small-time criminals oversaw the market. Hard, blustery men in leather coats, they were as easy to spot as police officers used to be, as they prowled the ranks of people squatting on blankets, laying out razor blades, shoelaces, and sanitary napkins, like ranks of toy soldiers.

“Birdseed,” said Irena, daring to tug on one of their smooth black leather sleeves. “I’m looking for birdseed. Can you get any?”

The man needed half a minute to register that her request was no joke. “Caviar would be easier,” he said. “Cocaine I could point you to now. A lamb loin—maybe a day or two. But birdseed?” He turned away with disinterest.

One afternoon Irena pricked her finger with the point of a safety pin and smeared a splotch of blood over both of her cheekbones until her face had a healthy pink color. She found Yves, the Canadian soldier, sitting on the sandbags of another checkpoint; he scrambled down eagerly on seeing her.

“I am Irena.”

“I remember.”

“Do you have—”

“The other day, like I said, I’m sorry.”

“I am not here to be mad,” she said. “We have a bird who is very important to us. And he won’t eat. Do you have any birdseed?” Irena could feel her eyes moistening, and wondered what would happen if the blood on her cheeks became wet.

Yves paused. “No. I haven’t seen any birdseed. I haven’t heard about any birdseed.” He called back in French to a couple of other soldiers at the checkpoint. They laughed, wonderingly.

“I can get candy bars,” said Yves. “Batteries, Tampax, shoelaces. But no birdseed.” Yves chanced to put his hand against Irena’s arm. “What a place,” he said gently. “Not enough food and water, and people ask for birdseed.”

         

IRENA AWOKE BEFORE her parents the next morning, disturbed, she realized within moments, by the absence of flapping from Pretty Bird, who was slumped against the side of his cage. His red feathers were curled under his feet, as if they had gotten stuck there and he didn’t have the strength to move them. His eyes looked like worn tiny brown pellets. His beak appeared to be growing soft, like an old rubber toy.

“I think our supplies will be fine today,” said Mrs. Zaric. “You must use this day to take care of Pretty Bird.”

         

BEFORE THE WAR, the Zarics had taken Pretty Bird to a Dr. Kee Pekar, in a stone house behind some trees on a small hill in Kosevo. Irena could remember playing a game with Pretty Bird as they skipped up the steps and counted them off, Pretty Bird riding her shoulder and making his gargling noises.

This time Irena’s parents had persuaded her not to bring Pretty Bird along to the veterinarian’s office. They were certain that the patient’s presence was not necessary for the vet to conclude that Pretty Bird was starving, and they didn’t want to worry that their daughter would risk her safety by throwing her body over their moribund bird.

Irena, for her part, insisted on going alone. She feared what the doctor’s diagnosis and advice might be, and planned to filter her recommendation. If Dr. Pekar said, “There is no birdseed, your bird must be put to sleep,” Irena was prepared to tell her parents, “She said we must keep looking for seed.”

The Knight had begun his morning broadcast. As Irena headed over the embankment at Gundulica, she could hear tinny laughter and low-voiced patter: “The self-styled leaders of Bosnia! Don’t they remind you of madmen who tell their doctors in the asylum, ‘Hey, be nice, now. I’m Napoleon! I’m Hannibal! I’m Julius Caesar! I’ll tell the authorities about you!’ They run to the United Nations. They run to the United States. They wail, cry, and moan like children who’ve been pushed out of a soccer game. ‘Ooh, ooh, help me, Mommy, help me, Daddy, the Serbs are being mean!’ ”

It was the first time Irena had heard the Knight’s beery bad-boy chuckle. He was beguiling. He was mesmeric. His rants were crammed with tripe and nonsense, irregularly embellished with truths. Incomprehensible events had given his diatribes coherence.

“But have you heard what the United Nations says?” he asked after a hush. “The head is an Ay-rab, after all. At least he has an excuse to be a Muslim. Although he’s not. Once most Ay-rabs get a little education, the first thing they are smart enough to do is stop being Muslim. Be a good Christian—drink and screw. So what’s wrong with our Muslims? But even Butt-rust Butt-rust Ghali says, ‘I can think of eight or nine places in the world that are worse than Bosnia right now.’ From what I see in the movies, he must include New York. God bless America. Shut up and buy Coke—that’s their policy. Their foreign minister says, ‘We don’t have a dog in this fight.’ Bow-wooow!” the Knight howled over the river. “Bow-wooow!” He panted and slurped with impressive authenticity.

“Well, we have real leaders over here,” the Knight went on. “Men and women you want to follow. Not mama’s boy whiners who go crying to America. Our leader, the masterful psychologist Radovan Karadzic, says, ‘Our army has surrounded Sarajevo. Our boys and girls and tanks are so thick, not even a bird can get past them!’ So, Muslims, go boo-hoo-hoo on America’s shoulder. They’ll put you on television. Lights, cameras, action! You’ll get to pose with Madonna, Robert Redford, and Sting. But don’t wait for help from America! Wait for America and you take the graves next to lots of Vietnamese and Iraqis and Kurds who died waiting.”

Irena was relieved when she could hear the Knight begin to ring in the Clash. Oh I’m so boooored with the U!S!A!

         

DR. PEKAR WAS IN; or, at any rate, at home, in her small apartment just above the office. Irena called up and the doctor stamped down the staircase, wearing a white coat for warmth in the chilly shadows beneath some of the last trees left standing in Sarajevo. Even scavengers were afraid to try to hack down trees on a hill that was so open to sniper fire. The doctor’s windows had been blown out, and breezes moved through quickly.

She smiled and squeezed Irena’s shoulders. “Of course I remember you,” she said. “The charming bird who makes noises like a washing machine. Unless”—she drew back—“I have already said the wrong thing.”

“No,” said Irena. “Pretty Bird is why I’m here.”

Dr. Pekar was wearing large hoop earrings below her frizzy ringlets of sandy hair. Irena thought that she had soft brown eyes, almost amber, like a kitten’s. Irena told her about Pretty Bird’s problems.

By the third sentence, the doctor was nodding vigorously. “Parrots are particular,” she said. “African grays especially. As you know, it is hard to explain to them why they need to alter their diet.”

Irena could feel her eyes reddening again. “We have been through so much together.”

Dr. Pekar moved on quickly. “You’ve tried rice?”

“All the time.”

“Boiled? Hard? Soft? With milk?”

“Every way. He eats a few bites, then turns away.”

“Macaroni?”

“Spaghetti,” said Irena. “Same story. Broken into bits. It’s not easy, you know, to get the strands down to just an inch or so.”

“You have to wrap them in a cloth and smash them with a bottle,” the doctor explained. “Crackers?”

“Sure.”

“Crumbs of whatever?”

“Always. Every time we can have a meal. A few nibbles, maybe.”

Dr. Pekar’s ringlets shook against the hoops in her ears. “I hate to hear this,” she said. “Some birds—they are just too smart to be fooled. Maybe they outsmart themselves. You’ve gone on the black market?” she asked. “I’ve had some luck with cat food there.”

“No seed.”

“If I knew another family,” she said with growing gloom, “who might have a bird and some seed to spare. But Pretty Bird has always been our one and only here.” The two women looked at each other across the chilly room.

         

“LOOK, I DON’T keep a supply of seed,” said Dr. Pekar. “But let me check something.” She led Irena through the folds of a dark green curtain and into her office, where the wind had strewn papers and lifted up poster calendars of cats, dogs, and rabbits, winking cutely from photographic sets. Dr. Pekar ducked her sandy head down like a searchlight into a display window, which seemed to hold a couple of dog collars and a catnip mouse toy.

“Here,” she said, holding out her hand with a tone of triumph. It was a small, old, crumpled sample box of Geisler birdseed from Germany.

Irena’s eyes welled. “You have saved Pretty Bird’s life,” she said.

“It’s not so simple,” the doctor said with a sigh. “This will last Pretty Bird one meal. Two, at most. He will assume there is more on the way. Which none of us can these days.”

Irena thought she could detect where the doctor was trying to lead her. “I won’t do anything to harm him. Nothing!” she said fiercely.

Dr. Pekar put out her hand. “I don’t want that, either. You have to help him. Have snipers been firing into your building?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Of course. Every building. What I’m going to tell you is distasteful. But you want to do what’s best for Pretty Bird, don’t you?”

“More than anything,” Irena said. “Anything in the world.”

“Then you must do something for his own good,” the doctor said simply.

“I know what you’re trying to get me to do,” said Irena angrily. “One hears it all the time now. That dying is kind. That it spares pain. There is nothing kind about dying, I swear. Milosevic, Arkan, and Karadzic—those are the only deaths that would be kind.”

“Hear what I mean,” the doctor responded with almost equal force. “What I mean is, you must give him a better chance than what we have here.”

Only Irena’s puzzlement kept her silent.

“Take this seed. Go home to Pretty Bird. Wait until you feel there is a lull in the sniper fire—even they take breaks—and bring Pretty Bird up to the roof. Sprinkle some seeds in the palm of your hand. Not too many—you may need to try this more than once. Let Pretty Bird eat; he will be famished. Soon there will be no more, and he will look up. You must show him your empty palm. Wipe it clean in front of him. Then—this is the hard part—you must push him off your arm or hand and make him fly away. Whatever it takes—a stern tone, flapping your arm until he falls away, whatever. Whatever. You must make him leave you.”

Irena was sobbing now. She curled her right hand up into the sleeve of her grandmother’s old ivory shirt so that she could use the cuff to daub her eyes and mop her nose.

“It’s his only chance,” the doctor insisted, sitting down. “That he’ll land over on the other side, where they still have trees and grass. Then we hope that someone over there sees him and says, ‘What a beautiful bird.’ ”

Irena had sunk to the doctor’s lap and thrown her arms around her waist.

Doctor Pekar stroked her head gently. “Maybe when the war is over, in a month, a year, you can put an ad in the paper, ask around, and find Pretty Bird,” she said. “We are all being asked to make some unspeakable choices, aren’t we? At least yours can keep him alive.” When at last Irena sat up, the doctor tried to blot a few of her tears with the palm of her hand. “This is a rotten thing we’re going through,” she said.

Irena wiped her wet face with her fingers, then looked at the doctor uncertainly. “I almost forgot,” she said. “How do we pay? Would you be insulted by cigarettes? My father makes candles.”

Dr. Pekar smiled as she looped a tawny ringlet around an ear. “It’s not necessary,” she said. “But I have an idea. Do you have any free time?”

“Who doesn’t?” said Irena. “I pick up food and water. Sometimes someone asks me to deliver a letter.”

“Could you come here tomorrow morning?” asked Dr. Pekar. “I’m trying to stay open now and then. Word has gotten around. There are people trying to keep their pets alive. Dogs, cats, hamsters—there’s not always much I can do for them. Do you like animals?”

“Very much,” said Irena.

“Much experience with them?”

“We had a cat when I was a child, Puddy. She died when we were both twelve. Then we got Pretty Bird.”

“Well, I could use some help,” the doctor continued. “To hold the animals while they’re examined or treated. Clean up when they’re gone. Sometimes just to hold them. I had a nurse—Svjetlana—you may remember. I imagine she’s on the other side. I hope so. I could also use some water. A little fuel for the burner in here. And I’ve been told there are even some hypodermic needles on the black market.”

“Everything but birdseed,” said Irena.

“Eight in the morning? If you aren’t here, I will assume you’ve been delayed by shooting.” Dr. Pekar rested her hands on Irena’s shoulders, her ringlets jiggling. “I am sorry for what you have to do,” she said. Then she added automatically, “Be careful of the snipers on your way home.”

         

WHEN IRENA ARRIVED HOME, she told her mother what the doctor had said. Her mother sat down in the kitchen and cried. Mr. Zaric was in the basement, she said, cleaning it up, setting out chairs, and trying to make the space comfortable during bombings. Aleksandra Julianovic was his interior designer.

“I think that this is something you and I must do together,” said Mrs. Zaric. Mother and daughter listened for gunfire, and heard several shots ringing in the distance. “Shh,” said Mrs. Zaric. “Listen for a minute more.” Soon there was another shot, but nothing more. Wordlessly, Mrs. Zaric took Pretty Bird from where he was crumpled against the side of his cage and cradled him in her hands. “Come on, little one,” she said.

They walked to a small door that opened onto the roof, all the while listening for gunfire, and moving slowly, Irena knew, to postpone their arrival. At the top, they pressed on the rail that unlatched the steel door. They had not really seen—or, at any rate, noticed—the clouds for months. Today, the sky seemed angry, gray, and boiling.

Irena took a plastic bag out of the pocket of her blue jeans and shook a small sprinkle of seeds into her right hand. Pretty Bird looked over from his perch in Mrs. Zaric’s hands, ventured an exploratory sniff, and then plunged his beak into the pile of seeds.

“Good boy, Pretty Bird,” Mrs. Zaric said.

Irena added, “But eat slowly, because there is no more.”

Irena and her mother had not cried together since they’d left Grbavica—no, since the night before. They had howled and beaten their hands against walls. But they hadn’t shed any tears. It was as if weeping might drain away the wrath that kept them going. Blood and sobs just dried. But now they cried. They shuddered; they gasped as if they had run to the top of a hill. Then, as they doubled over to catch their breath, they began to laugh. Laughing seemed to give them back breath. Irena straightened, struggling to hold the seed for Pretty Bird as he gnawed at her palm. He left small red bites that she would study for days.

Irena said, “You love that damn bird more than you love me.”

“It’s close,” Mrs. Zaric agreed.

Pretty Bird looked up as he finished the seeds, and began to hop, foot by foot, between Mrs. Zaric’s palms. “Bo-oing!” he said, resounding like the basketball hoop in Grbavica. “Bo-oing!”

“Listen,” Irena said lightly, “we have had a pretty bad time, haven’t we? But we can do you a favor and get you out of here. You know what? I guess you have always been able to fly away. We are thankful that you have wanted to stay with us so long. These days would have been much worse without you.” Her voice snagged. “Now here’s what we want you to do,” she said, brushing her mouth against the gray and green feathers on Pretty Bird’s head. “You take off and fly on over to where we used to live. You look around for the prettiest spot, and then you just settle down. Make your noises. Make that sound ’Bo-oing!’ Someone will see you and say, ‘What an amazing bird!’ And they will ask you to come home with them. Just hop a ride on their shoulder and go home with them. Eat and rest and let them love you.”

Mrs. Zaric spoke hoarsely from the other side of Pretty Bird’s head. “And when this madness is over we will come find you. Even if it is just to say hello. We will walk up and down the streets and ask, ‘Do you know a bird who can sing like a telephone rings and who flew here from Brazil because he didn’t like all that sand? That’s Pretty Bird. We have come to say hello.’ ”

Irena had worried that she would have to lift Pretty Bird from her mother’s hands and throw him into the sky. She had steeled herself to be stern. Dire images singed her mind. She would clasp her arms behind her back, as if handcuffed, so that Pretty Bird couldn’t fly back to her. He might wonder what he had done to be treated with such callousness. He might fly off only to dart back to beat his wings against Grandma’s kitchen window, as if to say, “Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Let me in. I just want to be with you.” But, instead, Pretty Bird cocked his head slightly to the side and took two last steps between Mrs. Zaric’s palms. She lifted her hands up toward the gray sky, and Pretty Bird took a small leap from her outstretched fingers, let the wind fill his wings, and flapped once, twice, three times rapidly, then soared into the wind and circled around the back of the building. Irena and her mother stood motionless, looking up, as the fringe of Pretty Bird’s red tail seemed to glow in the grayness. He took another bite of the air with his wings and flew over the tired river toward the jumbled cluster of cinder-block buildings that used to be their home.