Scrawny Bird With Ruffled Feathers

by Maruša Romih (Slovenia)

Making a local connection Portugal

The skies are boasting with gray clouds. A slight drizzle persistently shivers in the air creating a gentle mist, a curtain easy to walk through. It’s not too wet to walk around without an umbrella but determinate enough to leave my clothes damp. The paved sidewalks are slippery, quiet, and empty. It’s Sunday. The people walking on the streets are rare. Those who are seen, walk slowly around the corners or sit at bus stops. An older couple holds their hands. Almost no shops are open, not even the ones with souvenirs. Trams rattle gentler than expected. Their colors swiftly slide through the surroundings like an arrow on its predetermined journey. I’m walking down Rua da Palma, a long, narrow avenue of neat buildings with tile facades, wide road, few crosswalks, fences of no true purpose, and tiny grocery stores shoved in what were once just cracks in the buildings. There so are many old cars. Old Rovers, old Fords, older Hondas. I look around. To the left and right to not miss a graffiti or an ornamented door, upwards for balconies and street lights, and downwards because … you’d be surprised how many things one sees on the ground. As I walk down this boulevard in the embrace of lined-up buildings looking in all directions, I hear a voice coming from my left: “Some money, please, a penny, a dime.” I don’t turn my head, but my eyes follow the voice. It’s an older man sitting on the fence that I found meaningless. He’s scrawny; his eyes sunken and hollow but not empty. He’s not just staring, he’s looking, and it almost seems as if there’s a spark in his gaze. His hair is longer, reaching past his ears, and sticky, tangled together. Dressed in torn jeans and a gray hoodie, he sports what seems to be a brand-new baseball cap with the logo of Kansas City Chiefs. Had it not been for a recent super bowl, I wouldn’t have known that. He’s holding onto the fence, but only lightly, without grasping at the iron rail. “Just a penny, a dime …” and his voice dies away. “Buy me a banana,” he says. Not to me, for his eyes are focused on the ground. He might not even see me passing at that very moment. I look down myself, trying to find solace hidden in the cracks between the granite cubes. I walk onwards, noticing a shady grocery store with a dimmed interior. A pile of bananas arrogantly shines in bright yellow on its threshold. I take two. They cost me 42 cents. Escaping the grocery’s darkness and holding bananas in one hand, I feel triumphant. Upon exiting, I don’t notice him at once, but he’s still there, still sitting on the fence, his hand still resting on the iron rail. I get closer and stick those bananas under his nose. He looks up, for he was still staring at the ground. His face lights up, and his smile of crooked teeth stretches wide across it. That spark in his eyes comes to life. He takes the bananas with a shaking hand. “Two?” I nod. “Thank you, you lovely lady.” I nod again. “Thank you, have a nice day.” “You, too.” Long after I turn from Rua da Palma and hours after I leave the city behind, I still think of the scrawny man sitting on the fence like a bird with ruffled feathers and wounded wings. Would he be able to, I like to think he’d fly away. I think of his velvety voice slightly breaking after each word and the accent that I wouldn’t place in Europe. I feel regret because I didn’t talk to him, ask him about it. I’ll never know what brought this bird-like man to Lisbon, and I’ll never know what left him languishing on the streets, his story, his thoughts, aches, and dreams … but I’ll remember his unpretentiousness, politeness, some poorly hidden shame, genuine gratitude, and the spark in his eyes lighted by 42-cent bananas. For sometimes, even a meager interaction can forge a bond that eternally ties you to some people.