The Bird Market of Paris (2 page)

A large squab—a baby pigeon—huddled in the corner of one of the sections, and a small, scrawny squab hunched in the section next to it. Pigeons typically lay two eggs, and as a rule one egg hatches out a male pigeon and the other hatches out a female. The babies have to stay in the nest or the parents won't recognize them—at least, that seemed to be the case with these two squabs.

Poppy stood outside the coop, facing me through the wire.

“
Chérie
, reach up and move the small one into the nest with the fat one,” he said, pointing from one pigeon to the other.

One of the adult pigeons scrambled out of a nest and onto a perch above my head. Eggs rolled toward the lip of the partition, glowing white orbs dappled with specks of pigeon poop.

“The baby is starving,
Chérie
, you must move him,” Poppy said, pantomiming the gesture of scooping, like dirt in a backhoe.

I reached up, hesitated, pulled my hand back. The baby pigeon looked dangerous: an alien with a huge beak, gray skin, and fluffy greenish moss spreading like disease all over its body.

“Pick him up and move him over,” urged Poppy. “Are you afraid? Please do it,
Chérie
.”

I wanted to please Poppy, but there was too much activity in the coop. Mature pigeons flapped and cooed in a kind of Morse code, agitated at my intrusion, their chicks begging with high-pitched voices. I gazed at the squab, terror rising, believing I'd suffer serious physical damage if I touched it—maimed fingers or worse.

“He will die,” Poppy pleaded. “You can do it. You can rescue him.”

I stood on my toes and poised my hand over the baby, ready for pain and the feeling of something sharp, but he was pliable and warm, and I felt his bones slide underneath his skin. He pulled his legs into his body and tensed. I moved him to the proper nest and placed him inside with his sister.

“
Bravo!
” Poppy cheered, clapping his hands. “You saved him!”

I ducked through the coop door into the sunlight as a pair of blue jays dove through the branches of our grapefruit tree. I had changed the path of one creature's future. I felt, for the first time, how fragile everything was, including myself, maybe even Poppy, definitely our birds. That feeling stayed with me long after the baby pigeons feathered out and flew away, long after the coop decayed and Poppy tore it down, long after we moved away from that house and the new owners separated the lot and built two houses on the land that once held birds and wonder.

*   *   *

I spent every summer of my childhood with Poppy and Nona, like grandparent summer camp, but the recession of 1979 forced my parents and me to move into Nona and Poppy's small three-bedroom home in South Miami. Nona and Poppy didn't share the same bed, or even the same room, and they weren't affectionate toward each other, but there was a solidarity between them—the kind of bond, I later realized, that forms between people who have seen things together that they don't want to remember. My parents slept in the third bedroom and I slept with Nona in her bed, which was always filled with birdseed I had dragged under the sheets with my bare feet; I'd wake, a little sweaty, with millet kernels indented into my skin. We didn't have air-conditioning, just the constant whir of fans in every room.

I don't know how my parents felt—that situation couldn't have been comfortable for a married couple—but my transition was seamless. I spent my days watching Poppy seduce birds to eat from his hands and scrutinizing the pita bread in Nona's oven.

“How does the bread fill up with space?” I asked her as I watched the Frisbees of dough puff into inflated globes. I crouched with my nose so close to the oven's window the heat pulsed through me like a melody.

“The bread will fall if you talk about it,” Nona whispered, her small, bronze hands white with flour, ready with a flat wooden paddle to rescue the bread. I could match her complexion after a week of beach days; otherwise, I was as pale as my mom, the lone non-Greek in our nuclear family, a native of Coney Island, on the Atlantic, not the Aegean Sea.

“But how does the pocket get into the pita?” I whispered back.

“The dough knows what to do,” she said.

I doubted dough had its own volition. I thought Nona didn't want to tell me the secret, because giving it away might jinx the bread, turning it into flat, chewy discs instead of fluffy pockets.

Poppy seemed more willing to let me in on his secrets. Every morning he opened the coop door and released our pigeons. He tossed them birdseed and leftovers from the night before, then turned on the hose and propelled a fine mist through the nozzle, the water effecting a rainbow in the sunlight for the pigeons to bathe beneath. They shifted their heads underneath their wings and writhed their necks at impossible angles. They hunched in the wet grass with wings relaxed, shimmying their bodies deep into the lawn.

Then they bounced up, shook off the bath, and disappeared into the breeze as if they were made of it. There were days when I worried about them being out in the world. Once, driving with Poppy in the afternoon, he pointed out two of our fancy pigeons standing atop a telephone pole. At dusk, the pigeons returned like factory workers and entered the coop, one by one. Poppy often sent me outside to make sure they were all accounted for, all two dozen or so, then I'd close the door and latch it against the raccoons and the occasional fox.

Most evenings, after securing our pigeons, Poppy and I stood in the grass and listened to the mockingbirds and blue jays claiming their territory for the night, the cicadas beginning their loud chorus. Night jasmine filled the air with its heavy syrup. Feet rooted in the earth, I mimicked the mockingbirds to see if they'd call back to me, which made Poppy laugh.

The year we first lived with them, he bought me a pair of blue and white parakeets, Pepito and Pepita, who soon came to a tragic end at the claws of our neighbor's cat. The crime scene was sanitized by suppertime, and a new pair of green parakeets had replaced the unfortunate blue couple. Poppy believed it was a good omen when a pet died in the home—that a tragedy originally intended for humans had taken the animal instead. He said this was why people in the old country kept animals in the yard and house.

Whenever one of my pets passed into the next realm, a canary or a cat, I'd run to Poppy crying, and he'd clap his hands, raise them to the sky, and exclaim, “
Merci, mon Dieu
, thanks to God!” We memorialized the life the animal gave up for us and toasted with apple juice, listing the animal's positive attributes:
Henry was a fine duck, a friendly and beautiful duck, with the prettiest feathers, whose honk could be heard down the block
.

*   *   *

Nona was a gracious and proper woman, but had some old world superstitions that I couldn't understand. She didn't allow me to keep the seashells I collected on the beach. She said they were bad luck because they were dead, and you don't bring death into the house.

She said that when someone shattered a dish or a glass, it meant something evil had been put upon them, but now the spell was broken. She burned frankincense, myrrh, and mastic every few days, carrying the little dish of burning sap all over the house to drive out evil that may have settled in the corners.

She wore “evil eye” amulets, royal blue glass discs with concentric white, light blue, and black circles in the center: one around her neck, one in a ring, and one on a bracelet, and kept them all over the house, saying they repelled other people's evil thoughts about you.

When I was ten years old, Nona asked, “Who do you love more, me or Poppy?” How much Nona's eyes looked like mine, in shape and color, deep brown with flecks of gold. I loved both Nona and Poppy, but if the scales tipped, they tipped a feather's weight in Poppy's favor. I forced my face into as neutral a position as possible. Nona said, “I knew it. You love your grandfather more.”

Poppy pulled silver dollars from people's ears and gave the coins to them. He looked people in the eye. He believed in giving small presents to everyone, from local celebrities to the receptionist at his dentist's office, and he held lunch parties at his fashion design studio where he plied his clients with homemade spanakopita and baklava. I helped him hard-boil eggs in tea so they were brown instead of white. Nothing in Poppy's world could be ordinary.

He was a gifted raconteur, telling stories over and over, each time adding another tiny detail, embellishments like sequins on a dress. He talked a bit about Egypt, about the green talking parrots that lived in the palace and about the superior nature of Cairo's fruit and vegetables, but most of all, Poppy overflowed with stories about Paris, the city's broad sidewalks where ten people could walk shoulder to shoulder, and the lazy afternoons sitting in cafés, people watching. Rarely did I hear about the Pyramids of Giza or the Sphinx. He was taken with Paris, and through his stories I was taken with it, too. He said he would take me there someday.

He told me about the Marché aux Oiseaux, the bird market of Paris, held on Sundays in conjunction with the famous flower market and close to Notre Dame. I heard about the bird market of Paris from Poppy so often, it became something I had to experience.

“You can hear the music of the birds a mile away,” he told me. “The birds are a miracle, you cannot imagine such beautiful birds, the colors, the songs.” He spoke emphatically, like a man running for office, and I believed him.

In my imagination, birdsong filled the market, waving and swelling like smoke, sunlight bathing each feather to a glisten, down to the shaft where the feather anchors into the wing. Pullets, canaries, and finches playing with the afternoon light, an iridescent sheen bouncing from their tightly groomed feathers. Roosters with feathers on their feet. Pigeons with tails spreading up and out like an Andalusian lady's fan. I didn't know these birds, but Poppy's talk made them irresistible.
That's the way I'll love them, too
, I thought,
when I'm old enough to go to Paris
. It was as inevitable as the stars, which were birds, after all.

 

Chapter 2

Poppy cut his shoulder-length, flowing silver hair himself by looking at the back of his head in a mirror. He had a strong, straight nose, and was known for his overgrown eyebrows; he'd roll them upward into curls, like handlebar mustaches on the outside edges of his eyes, and chase me around the house or yard as I squealed, pretending to be afraid. He seemed tall when I was a child, but he was of average height. I rode on his broad shoulders to pick grapefruit and key limes from the taller branches on the trees in our yard.

Most close friends and relatives called Poppy by our last name, Moustaki, including Nona, though when I was around, she called him Poppy. My father, his son, called him Monsieur Moustaki. My mom called him by his first name, Soli, and acquaintances and business associates called him Bruno, his middle name.

Though my family was Greek, they didn't speak Greek because they originated in Corfu, a tiny Grecian island with its own many dialects, and they were Jews. Poppy's parents spoke Italkian, a mixture of Hebrew and Italian sprinkled with enough Greek so that invading armies over the centuries couldn't understand them.

Poppy's father, Victorio, a tailor, and his mother, Stella, fled Corfu to Egypt in 1891 after a period of civil unrest, when most of the Jews were forced off the island. In 1917, they brought Poppy into the world in Cairo, then a metropolitan city bustling with Europeans who spoke French as a common language, and who, with a liberal measure of Arabic, could also communicate with the Egyptians. With an ear for languages, Poppy learned Greek and became fluent in ten other languages: Italkian, French, Arabic, Hebrew, English, Italian, Portuguese, German, Spanish, and later, in Miami, Haitian Creole. He defined fluency as the ability to speak about philosophy in the language. He spoke English well, but never used contractions.

My father, Poppy and Nona's only child, was born in 1943 in Heliopolis, Egypt, a home birth at 39 Alexandria Street. He learned only French and Arabic as a child. Despite the religious differences, he was educated by Jesuits in a French-speaking Catholic school in Cairo because Nona felt it was the best school in the city.

Poppy had learned to sew in his father's tailor shop, but worked as a military attaché in communications during World War II in the Greek army. He was the liaison officer for the British army under General Montgomery—and, later, the liaison between the Greek and British armies and the Free French army. He hinted that he had also been a spy for the British, rooting out Nazis hiding in Cairo.

After the war, Poppy became a couture dressmaker, designing gowns for rich and famous ladies in Cairo, including King Farouk's wife and small daughters, and the king's sister, Princess Fawzia Fuad, wife of the Shah of Iran.

Poppy's stories about Cairo sounded glamorous—yachting, car races, servants, parties. Photos of Nona as a young woman show her dressed in slinky sequined dresses, posing with the king's court at parties, Poppy at her side. King Farouk became a main character in Poppy's tales of Egypt: how Poppy played backgammon tournaments with the king and wouldn't lose games on purpose, though most other people were afraid to win against His Majesty; how the king cheated at poker—if he had three kings in his hand, he'd consider himself the fourth king and win; and how the king would eat “twenty-four pigeon soup,” made from slow-boiling twenty-four pigeons into a small bowl of rich broth.

In 1952, Gamal Abdel Nasser overthrew King Farouk in a bloody revolution, and thousands of Europeans and Jews left Egypt at gunpoint, taking only what they could carry. The revolutionaries killed many who refused to go, including Nona and Poppy's friends and neighbors. The dissidents burned the blocks around my grandparents' home—every office building, every store, every nightclub, and every restaurant. Nona and Poppy watched the mob wash through the streets toward their apartment to steal guns in the hunting club at the bottom of the building. Nona, Poppy, and my nine-year-old father ran down the emergency staircase and through a side exit as the furious riot breached the front door.