There had been two sheds attached to the farmhouse, one for churning the milk to make haloumi and anari, and the other for spinning wool into yarn. My mother and grandmother used the yarn to knit blankets. The men – including me, though I was just a boy – would load the mules with cheese, yoghurt, milk and rolled-up warm woollen throws and head out to the farmers’ market. My grandfather, strong as an ox and with a head of thick white hair, loved his animals, caring for them as if they were his children; although it’s true that he killed around four or five lambs a year – one especially for Easter after the long fast. The meat was clean and pure. We also had some chickens for fresh eggs, and a dozen turkeys.
I told Nisha all this when we went to the hills, and she had a similar look on her face as she did that day when she had seen the photograph. She held my hand tightly, as if the wind might blow me away.
What I didn’t tell her was that sometimes my grandfather and I would go hunting for songbirds. I didn’t want to tell her this. My grandfather had shown me how to make the lime sticks. We would make them together in the farmhouse and put them out in the sun to dry, then we would go to the woods and catch about ten birds. He had a singing bird mechanism which had been made in Paris by a French watchmaker who had perfected the sound. There was a bird on this automaton, meticulously crafted, adorned with real feathers. A wind-up key animated the bird and produced the sound. This device, which fit comfortably into the palm of my grandfather’s hand, was made of brass and steel components and had a leather bellow. When he wound the key, the movement pumped the bellow which sent air through a tiny whistle, producing the most extraordinary song. If the key was fully wound, the bird would sing for about half an hour.
He would always ask me to wind the key, while we stood in the forest of the mountains, just above the valley. Then he would balance the device in the branch of a tree, covering the metal with leaves so that the birds would not see it glinting in the sun. He made sure not to put up too many sticks. He didn’t want to kill any birds unnecessarily. He just wanted to catch enough so that the family could eat some meat in the winter months. Once the lime sticks were set, we would find ourselves a spot in another part of the woods and wait. To pass the time, he often told me stories – Greek myths and legends of Panhellenism and of fantastical beings – all things that, according to my grandfather, had spurred the Greek Cypriots to fight for independence but, at the same time, had convinced some of them of their invincibility. They had a sense of entitlement and desire to join with Greece that was fierce and unforgiving. ‘The voice of myth is powerful,’ he would say. These were his favourite words.
But sometimes we just waited quietly, listening to the sound of the machine, which was loud and clear, even at a distance.
‘Sounds like a real bird, Grandad,’ I said, on one such occasion.
‘It has a voice of brass and steel,’ he said. ‘Never confuse the two things.’
At the time, I had no idea what he meant, but I nodded dutifully, like I always did.
He went on: ‘You see, we have to eat, and we have to survive, and yet we must protect our dignity and our identity. There are things we do to achieve those things. But we can respect the land and the animals that are on it. Always be kind to the land, the people and the animals that are on it. Remember that. It’s the most important rule in the world.’
This was just after the war, when the island had been divided. My father had fought, and he came back without his right hand and with a new voice. When he came trudging up the mountain, a week after we’d heard on the radio that the war had ended, his eyes were different – they had spots of blood in them, and he barely spoke. He only opened his mouth to complain, or yell about one thing or another. I remembered how his voice would suddenly break the silence. Our Turkish friends had disappeared from their houses in the hills and now we were supposed to refer to them as our enemies. The only thing my father said in his old voice – which I remembered as so earnest, so thoughtful – was that he’d killed a friend down there. Though he never told us who it was.
After the war, I learnt a lesson I would never forget: how a person can disappear inside themselves, and that, sometimes, like my father, they are never able to find their way back.
*
There it was again – the sound of a woman’s voice. As if the wind had opened its mouth and let out a cry. I suddenly remembered where I was: the river to my right, the field to the left. Was that just the wind? A crow maybe? Was my mind playing tricks on me? I looked around.