Then he used fishing string (again, from the same carpentry shop—the boss liked to do a fair bit of fishing) and threaded the glass pieces with it, looping and tying them so that they stayed secure. It was delicate work. The fishing string was thin, like the bird trap wires. He rued his clumsy fingers, no longer nimble for such fine and delicate crafting.
In the morning he hung the first wind-chime up on the jambu tree, where he spotted yet another bird trap. The wind-chime tinkled in the morning breeze, glittering red-blue-green-transparent on the low-hanging branch.
“Uncle.” A boy stopped in his tracks, his bicycle squealing to a halt. “What are you doing?”
“Entertaining the fairies,” he answered, watching the wind chime sparkle in the sun.
For every bird trap he discovered, no matter how discreet and well hidden the officers of the town council had meant them to be, he made a glass bottle wind chime.
One evening, when he was about to make some broth out of instant noodle soup mix (the Malay lady had not visited him in some time, as she was busy with her family) the fairy appeared with another fairy. They carried, with some difficulty, a plastic bag filled with fried chicken wings. He stared as they placed it almost reverently in front of him before they flew off, laughing gaily. He cautiously peeled open the bag and the delicious aroma of freshly fried chicken plumed forth, bathing his face in oily fragrant steam.
The fairies continued to bring food every week. They carried in pok choi, string beans, chye sim and assorted root vegetables like muang kuang and sweet potatoes (his personal favourite—steamed or boiled). He did not know how they managed to collect all these vegetables. Perhaps they salvaged them from the wet market that sold fresh vegetables and produce. He was grateful for their kindness, for their generosity. In return, he made more of the glass-bottle wind chimes. His hands bled but he did not care. He woke one day to find that the fairy had left him a small tube of cream for cuts and bruises
The wind chimes seemed to capture the attention of the apartment dwellers. Children often stopped and watched the glass bits stirring in the breeze. Sometimes they stole the wind chimes, and yet he did not get angry. Instead, he made more wind chimes, breaking the glass bottles at night and tying the glass shards with fishing string.
Some parents became concerned and they wrote to the town council about the weird and violent old man who broke glass at night. Please send down police, they requested urgently. Or people from the IMH. We are afraid he might hurt our children with his broken glass.
Trying to placate the residents and wanting to be seen to be doing its job, the town council sent officers to knock on the old man’s door and slip warning notices through the gap, hoping he would read them. But he simply threw them away and went on making the wind chimes. The IMH—the Institute of Mental Health—sent in volunteers, too, but they were ignored by the old man.
It was two days before the Hungry Ghosts’ Festival when the smooth glass pebbles started appearing in little plastic bags. He had noticed his unfinished glass shards disappearing a couple of weeks ago and was concerned because he had to make the wind chimes for the fairies. The glass pebbles intrigued him. Someone had smoothed the edges, made the glass pleasant to the touch. He made wind chimes out of these glass pebbles and hung them on the trees. The music they made was different from the sharp-edged glass shards. Softer, sweeter, lighter.
Like fairy laughter.
At night, he would sometimes catch glimpses of the wind chimes and the way they drew groups of stray cats who would just sit and watch the glass bits twinkle intermittently under the light of the streetlamps. Or there would be small little moths fluttering close to the wind chimes, drifting like white petals in the breeze.
More letters came from the town council. He shredded them and threw them into the gunnysack designated for recycling. All this happened during the weeks within the Hungry Ghosts Month. He could hear the funeral wakes during the day and, at night, Buddhist chants wafting in the quiet-estate air. Oddly enough, he felt strangely protected and did not worry about hungry spirits haunting his abode. The food and pebbles still appeared as if on schedule and he was grateful for these little gifts.
Cedric. The police are here. We need to go.
Cedric?
Listen…
Can’t you hear them?
The wind chimes are still there, singing in the breeze: still serenading the fairies, still warning of secret dangers.
A Single Year
Csilla Kleinheincz
I had learnt love with and for others, so when I met Iván, I almost knew what it was. I was confident enough to make the decision to leave the hospital and move to the country of curry and red plains. I visited my father for the first time in two years to tell him: I am moving to India with someone I met only three months ago, but I wish to spend all the following months to get to know him better.
I didn’t expect his blessing; we never had that kind of father-daughter relationship. Rather, my visit was the work of defiance: I wanted to look into his eyes to prove to myself that I dared. He usually disapproved of my decisions, although he never explicitly forbade anything. He left me to discover the consequences. This time he never even waited for me to finish before he announced that I may not go with Iván. He spoke forcefully, almost like a normal dad would.
“Why not?” I asked and didn’t look away because I had promised myself I would be brave and bear anything he might say.
He didn’t answer at once, but the pity in his eyes jarred my teeth.
“Why not?”
“Because he will die in one year.”
I watched my father, his face covered in grey stubble, his eyes that, even in my childhood, seemed tired—tired and as resigned as the planets that circle on the same route forever and know everything that can be known.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Do you feel it? Even so, I don’t care what you know.”
“What should I tell you, Judit?” His gaze stole my breath from me. Cassandra must have had the same look as she faced the Troyans.
“Even so,” I said, rising. “Even so.”
I trembled. His study felt cramped.
Then I was standing on the doorstep, looking back. He was sitting in the same hunched pose, clasping his hands in his lap and regarding me with the same insufferable pity. I slammed the door and, in the next moment, was running down the stairs; another blink and I sat in my car, my hand on the ignition key. The time I had left behind caught up with me, swept through me, bringing the flotsam of rage and helpless frustration. I hit the steering wheel, and I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t hit my father instead, when he told me what he shouldn’t have.
For even if I told myself repeatedly, even so, even so, hoping the undulation of words would loosen the knot in my belly, I knew he told me the truth.
Iván will die in one year.
My father was no Cassandra. You had to believe him because he told the truth. We knew that.
Others thought this a gift, but they never knew the man beyond his reputation and they never got their prophecy. I wasn’t even three when my mother left him. As his other women left him later. Not because he wasn’t a good person or a suitable partner; he brought in a good income, he was nice and polite, never even raised his voice. But when his eyes turned to inhuman holes, showing the future, all the women fled. They tried to cope with it but it’s impossible. You cannot live with someone who is sometimes older than the solar system.