Caged Lions
The screech of the car's brakes was loud. The sound of the impact was horrifying and with the last thud and gasp there were no lingering doubts that someone was seriously hurt. A steady drizzle continued to fall. Swarming curiously onto the road, one by one people formed a faceless crowd, to observe the final breath of the unknown man hurled to one side, onto the cobblestone footpath. No one took responsibility for the pain he suffered nor did anyone shed a tear for one so bedraggled; a scruffy ending to an obviously failed existence.
Sirens blared as an ambulance and a police car arrived onto the scene with just enough time to draw shut the eyes that had caught the final glimpse of the rain clouds above and to toss a brown blanket over the limp body.
A police officer, who was scribbling something into a small notebook asked, Does anyone know who he is?
A middle-aged woman, sporting a large shopping bag, came forward to speak to the officer. I don't know his name but he looks like one of the men who live in a nearby boarding house. It's the one up the road for old alcoholics, derelicts, drifters and burnt-out schizophrenics. I know the woman who owns it, she may know, the woman announced quickly.
The policeman conversed briefly with her while he continued to write down a few more notes. He put away his book and marched straight toward an open doorway where an elderly woman in a pink and white dressing gown stood immovable, stunned and speechless with both hands cupped over her mouth.
As the officer approached the street-front house, a short distance away from the milling crowd, the woman burst into a nervous chatter as if to free a heavy heart. He's one of my boarders, it's Mews; he'd been living here for some years; in one of the rooms on the first floor. I heard the noise and came out to see what was going on. He couldn't see well; his eyesight was failing, you know. He was probably talking to himself, as he usually did, he was not well. He had been ill for many years but he was a good man and he wouldn't have seen it coming, he was easily distracted. This is terrible, reported the woman anxiously, unaware that the officer was again taking notes.
What's your name? The officer asked.
Rose Bellano, the woman replied. I live here and I've been running the boarding house on my own since my husband's death, five years ago. Mews came here from Canada about twelve years ago, I think. He kept to himself. He was very quiet she added.
It wasn't long before the news spread to the other boarders in the house.
Gilles Isidoro Mews died in the same way he had lived: alone, deprived and destitute. His home, in widow Bellano's small boarding house was the unkempt room he shared with another lonely soul. Four more rooms branched off a long corridor with high blistered ceilings and at the end of which, a tiny bathroom serviced the house's seven guests. Mrs. Bellano lived alone in her apartment on the second floor.
The house guests had assembled in the large common room. It was a somber gathering. The men sat in silence on the old soiled couches and chairs that lined the flaky plastered walls of the room. Two of the group, Sal and Pablo, stood up suddenly and walked eagerly toward the coffee pot percolating on the small gas stove in the corner of the room. The aromatic brew drenched and flavored the air in the room. It was unusual for all the guests to be together but today was different; the one they called Issi was dead.
Come and get it, grab your cups guys, the coffee's ready, Sal encouraged the men as he prepared to pour the hot drink.
The men queued next to Sal, each holding a cup to fill in their outstretched hands and then made their way silently to their seats, clutching the hot brew with anticipation.
As he sat on a nearby chair; Mike, one of the boarders, spoke. He had never done any wrongs to me, he said, fidgeting nervously with his cup.
Sal, who had finished pouring the coffee, scanned the room then turned to Mike.
He once told me a story, if you want to hear it I can try to remember how he told it to me, Sal said, addressing Mike as well as the rest of the group.
As if on a directors cue the men nodded together; maintaining their solemn mood.
Sal started to recall Issi's story. Well, we were in this room, not long ago and he told me that as a kid he found a bird lying at the base of a big oak tree behind his house. To Issi it appeared that the bird had a damaged wing. It was a white dove, I think,
Sal paused to glance around the room again and saw that the men were waiting to hear him continue. Sal went on. Issi took the bird inside the house and into his room, resting it on the pillow, on his bed and covered it with some wool and pieces of torn newspaper. The bird became comfortable with the extra attention and appeared to be recovering so he left it there. He would come back to it occasionally putting some water nearby, a small piece of shredded lettuce leaf and some corn for it to eat. At night he slept next to the bird, being very careful, keeping it warm and watching over it. This went on for quite a few days and it seemed that the dove was getting better; though the wing had closed, it was still damaged. For weeks, the bird would strut and swagger about Issi's room with increasing freedom but it didn't fly. Sal paused again to take his breath; he sipped his coffee and looked at the men around the room. The men also took a sip from their cups.
No one spoke. No one interrupted Sal; they wanted him to go on. Sal wasn't accustomed to standing in front of people and telling tales but it seemed to him that it was the right time to share Issi's story with the people who had been present during Issi's last days. The men waited while Sal gathered his thoughts and proceeded.
Issi spoke to me about the bird with true care and compassion; he was teary and said he had never felt like that before, or ever again. He said that his winged dove was like a caged lion; it couldn't become what it was born to be. He felt a deep sorrow for that little creature, Sal's voice broke slightly with emotion; pausing, he coughed to clear his throat.
One of the men, Jose Umberto, the big bearded Brazilian, shuffled uneasily on the red and black sofa near the doorway. Flicking to one side the untidy crop of thick shoulder length white hair that adorned his high-browed head, the Brazilian dragged himself to the edge of his seat. He placed his cup on the floor next to his huge feet and stood up. The big man cast a fearsome figure in his long grey coat. Standing tall at close to two meters; his stooped frame, busted by decades of alcohol and drug abuse, vacillated unsteadily forward and continued to sway as he commenced talking.
He told me that story too, Jose Umberto's words stung the silence. I believed him. I can tell when someone's honest and telling the truth. The guy was real; a real philosopher. He came back from the north so he could be near where he lived as a kid. That's what he told me. I liked him and sometimes he made me laugh and not too many people have done that for me, the Brazilian continued, pointing a big, dark finger to the ceiling. He was young, too young to die. He only turned sixty something the other day, he said, slowly swinging around to the sound of a door opening behind him.
Mrs. Bellano walked into the room where the men were gathered; she held a plate of biscuits which she placed on the table between Mike and Sal. What a terrible thing, she said.
The men looked at her uneasily, observing her every move; they did not like her nor did they trust her. The men knew the reason she wandered about the house. She would always check on how they used the facilities: switching off lights, lowering the heaters and nagging the men about water consumption. The rent the men paid to Rose Bellano didn't leave them much for anything else.
Rose Bellano was a moderate drinker and a heavy smoker; but these were habits she did not tolerate in her boarders. She was still wearing her dressing gown and a pale sweet scent of cheap perfume barely shrouded the all too familiar smell of nicotine. She placed her hands firmly into the deep pockets in the front of her gown and walked slowly around the room. The men watched as she went to the stove, picked up the last cup and poured what remained of the percolated brew. Mrs. Bellano stared at the coffee in her cup absorbing the tone of the room as she nervously swirled the cup in her hand.
Before walking in, I eavesdropped on your conversation. I wanted to know what you were talking about, Rose Bellano said, glancing sharply, first at Sal and then at Jose Umberto. I know I shouldn't have and I'm sorry but please allow me to add something to Mews' story, she continued as she placed a finger to her lips; instantly hushing the men as they began to stir.
The men were visibly angered and stared at her suspiciously but refrained from interjecting. It was an unusual day and Mrs. Bellano had never before been in the midst of all her boarders, without complaining about something; let alone apologizing to them. They waited patiently.
Mews told me that story too. She paused to detect whether the men approved. Only yesterday, he visited me to add a little detail to the story. He asked me whether I remembered his winged dove and I said I did. He went on to tell me; that one day his dove just went away, never to be seen again. He never did discover how it could have left his room; it just vanished. Rose stopped to drink from her cup. Issi told me that part, a bemused Pablo interrupted.
We knew that too, repeated Jake and Vance, who were sitting at the table together, raising their voices with scorn and waved their hands, rejecting the woman's presence in the room with them on this their day of mourning. We all knew that, Issi told us all the same story, Sal joined in, his reddened face unable to hide his anger.
Rose placed her cup on the table and lifting her hands above her head in a gesture of truce pleaded with the men to allow her to go on.Let her finish, boomed the voice of Jose Umberto.
Suddenly, a quiet room confronted Rose, her emotions soared. Thank you, I just want to finish and then I'll go, please let me. Rose struggled to regain her usual posture. Two days ago Mews came upstairs and sat with me. He told me to keep this for all of you, Rose paused, taking two envelopes out of her pocket. One was pale yellow and old; made of thick paper. The other was white.
Fighting back tears, Rose continued, opening the yellow envelope she took out a musty document and unfolded it. No one stirred.
This yellow paper is the property title to the house next door and it belonged to Mews. In this other envelope is Mews' last will and testament and you may have probably guessed that he's left it to all of us jointly. Yes, including me; and I promised him that I'd look after all of you for as long as I live.
Mews gave me these and said that looking after the dove was the most important event of his childhood. Its disappearance made him realize that he couldn't keep it forever though that was his desire; it wasn't born to be caged. He said that after his dove disappeared the only thought that made any sense to him was that, in the preceding days, he had done his utmost best to look after it, Rose paused.
The room remained quiet as the men held onto their emotions.Rose took a deep breath and continued, His words still echo loudly with me, as he handed me this envelope, 'Rose, he said, this is a good thing but we are all winged doves, all caged lions. You are the only person I know who will know what to do with this, please look after them. When they're ready they'll leave.' he then got up and left,
Rose's voice tapered off to a faint whisper as silence filled the room. Rose added, Issi's gesture is a wonderful gift, it belonged to his family and he'd held on to it for a long time.
He told me that he didn't have the strength nor did he know what to do with it. He didn't want to squander it because some good could come of it. It's his gift to you.
Pulling out a chair, Mrs. Bellano sat at the table with the men. She cast a gaze at her boarders as if she was seeing them for the first time; tears began to gently run down her flushed cheeks. They all knew Issi would have approved.