The day after Mona was hit in the ear with a rotten egg thrown by her American neighbor, she adopted a blue heron. Complaining to her friends had not been enough, complaining to the landlord and the gatekeeper had not been enough, complaining to her husband had not been enough. She had never suffered such humiliation! She had marched to the Friday bird market and bought the bird with the harshest call. The terrible yawing would surely torment her American neighbor, whom she had nicknamed "The Ugly Duck."

 

When she came home with the enormous bird at three o'clock in the afternoon, her husband, Mohammed, who was still in his pajamas, said, "Don't you usually pluck your chin hairs on Fridays?"

Mona was now too busy watching the Ugly Duck to waste her time on vanity. She and Mohammed rarely had sex anymore. And when they did, it was a lackluster and cursory affair; he rolled off her quickly and starting picking his teeth.

 

Every Friday, while she was looking in her hand mirror, plucking her chin hairs, she sneaked a glance behind her at the Ugly Duck in the building opposite hers. On warm days he often strutted nude on his balcony, with a gaggle of young Egyptian men. Such an unashamed parading of sensuality enraged her. When she had finished watching the Ugly Duck and his entourage, she prayed and recited the Quran in front of the sheik on the television.

 

Now, her husband Mohammed glared at the blue heron. "Why didn't you adopt a kitten? There are plenty around the neighborhood," he said.

 

"You hate cats," Mona said. She had begged him to have a cat for years, but he always refused.

 

"The heron is going to ruin our gold furniture," Mohammed said, as if he were a new bride, not a sixty-year old man.

 

"Maybe the bird will turn into a cat."

 

"Herons eat fish. This isn't a very practical pet. Where are we going to keep him? With Amir here, we have hardly any space," Mohammed complained.

 

"Amir will have to find another place to live," Mona said. "He is thirty-five years old."

 

"But Mona, he's not married. You're going to give his room to a bird?"

 

Mona was transforming. Internally, she had not changed a centimeter for years. However, two events had happened to distract her from her persistent delight in matchmaking and speculations about the price of gold: the day her precious Amir had slapped her in the face because he couldn't watch "Terrorists and Kebab," the famous Adel Imam film about a man who is so frustrated by Egyptian bureaucracy that he takes everyone in a government building hostage. Who would marry him? He was a fat lug, who sprawled out on her marital bed, watching Adel Imam comedies, hour after hour. She and Mohammed had spent thousands of pounds on private lessons to get him through the faculty of Engineering at Cairo University, but he had never gotten a job. Every presentable girl she had brought to the house had left in tears.

But even worse than her son, Amir, was the Ugly Duck, in the building across the way, who taunted her with his unnatural, lascivious sexuality: the obscene gestures, the hooting, the loud, raucous music. Some singer always moaned, "Boom. Boom. Yeah. Yeah. Boom. Boom." On Fridays, the young Egyptian boys would take turns, kneeling in front of the Ugly Duck, sucking his thing. He sat, legs splayed open, as if he were a king. His eyes were closed.

 

Why didn't anyone in the neighborhood call the police?

 

Once the Ugly Duck mooned her with his hairy haunches when she was watching. Another time, he whipped his thing out and sprayed it at her.

 

She flicked on the bright lights of her chandelier, which were almost as strong as police searchlights. There were no screens on her windows. Late every night, she hung out the window, watching the Ugly Duck's apartment. Egyptian soap operas were a bore compared to the nightly scenarios on the Ugly Duck's balcony.

 

A young man with beautiful black curly hair appeared the most frequently on the Ugly Duck's balcony. He wore royal blue turtlenecks and tight American blue jeans. She guessed he was about seventeen and she nicknamed him Feras, Knight. He was indefatigable, thrusting himself into Ugly Duck's backside for hours. She wondered what it would be like to have such an energetic sexual partner. Her only sexual partner had been Mohammed and he was lethargic and unoriginal. She had heard from her women friends that there were many other variations that would increase pleasure.

 

Now instead of her son, lounging on her marital bed, the blue heron, yawed at Egyptian toothpaste commercials or a veiled woman in a pink headscarf putting laundry into the washing machine. One day, after a stormy row with the blue heron over a pillow, Amir had suddenly moved out and settled with his paternal aunt, who had no children. Undeterred, the heron soon learned how to turn on and off the television. And he even asserted his rights to the large, marital bed. He flapped his wings between Mona and Mohammed.

 

Naturally, they quarreled. Mohammed complained about the bird in his bed. He complained about the smell of rancid fish in his flat. He complained about the bird feathers in his dresser drawers. The smell of bird shit permeated the flat; no amount of cheap, Egyptian cologne could dispel it. He complained that she was not making stuffed squash or heavy, floury white lasagna for him anymore.

 

"You're jealous of the blue heron, " Mona said, incredulous.

 

"You don't love the blue heron," Mohammed said. "You hate the Ugly Duck."

 

Of course, she relished the intensity of her feud with the Ugly Duck. She enjoyed hating the Ugly Duck, much more than loving a man or even the blue heron. Could love, be this intense, too?

 

The Ugly Duck retaliated by buying a colorful Amazonian parrot. He taught it to say things in English, like: "Hey, Ugly Sister. Hey, Ugly Sister. Hey, Ugly Sister."

 

Did he mean her?

 

Or, "I'm Bad Like Jesse James. I'm Bad Like Jesse James. I'm Bad Like Jesse James."

 

Who was Jesse James?

 

Or, "Hittin' the Bottle Again. Hittin' the Bottle Again. Hittin' the Bottle Again."

 

She wanted to break a bottle over the Ugly Duck's head.

 

The blue heron and the giant parrot competed yawing in the cul-de-sac. The cawing of the birds muted the call to prayer, the squealing car horns and the restive, feral cats in heat.

 

The tall, slim bawab or gatekeeper from Aswan reported to her: "All the neighbors are complaining. The bird calls are much worse than the Friday call to prayers. Nobody can bear the noise."

 

As if the parrot had overheard their conversation, he even started to imitate the call to prayer. "Allah Akbar. Allah Akbar. Allah Akbar."

 

God is Great. God is Great. God is Great.

 

The parrot alternated "Allah Akbar" with "Hey, Ugly Sister." Or "Allah Akbar" with "Hittin' the Bottle Again." Or "Allah Akbar" would be followed with a series of calls, "I'm Bad Like Jesse James."

 

The sheik at the neighborhood mosque complained to the landlord in America about the blasphemous parrot. The parrot's call "Allah Akbar" was quashing the muezzin's call, which was amplified to screeching point. This colorful parrot was the work of the devil. The Israelis had planted the parrot in Garden City to destroy the missionary spirit of this small neighborhood mosque.

 

The landlord, a successful plastic surgeon, was teaching at the University of Missouri at Columbia. He began to dread the frequent, expensive phone calls from Egypt, complaining about the blasphemous parrot at the Ugly Duck's apartment in his apartment building.

 

"I mean no disrespect, Sheik Abdou," he said. "Do you really think the Israelis would waste their time on a neighborhood mosque in Garden City?"

 

"Never underestimate the Israelis," Sheik Abdou said, cryptically.

 

"Maybe the parrot was planted by the Copts in the neighborhood. There's a Coptic Orthodox church just right around the corner from the mosque," Dr. Hossam said, offering another conspiratorial explanation.

 

"I never thought of that," Sheik Abou said.

 

"Haven't they been asking you to turn down the volume at Friday prayers for the last five years?"

 

"Well, yes . . . " Sheik Abdou said.

 

The landlord promised he would call the university so they could have someone in the housing office talk to the Ugly Duck about the blasphemous parrot, but because of his busy work schedule at the medical school, he forgot. He was teaching wholesome blonde American medical students from the Mid-West how to do tummy tucks and boob jobs.

 

Meanwhile, the atmosphere at the Ugly Duck's apartment in the landlord's building in Garden City, changed. Instead of wild, ecstatic couplings on the balcony, Mona heard shouting. Bodies being slammed against walls. The crunching of bones. Cursing. Mother Fucker! Cunt!

 

The rage in these words was more terrible than the parrot's monotonous calls, "I'm Bad Like Jesse James."

 

The next time Amir came to lunch, she asked, "What does cunt mean?"

 

He almost choked on his fried drumstick. "Why do you want to know?"

 

"No reason," she said, not wanting to discuss the Ugly Duck with her son. Had Amir spurned the idea of marriage because he was like the Ugly Duck? She pushed this unpleasant thought out of her mind.

 

More and more, the Ugly Duck sat on the balcony alone, a ragged ice pack on his ravaged face. He was no longer the king on his throne. He seemed as pitiful as a one-legged beggar on Kasr el-Aini street. But hadn't the Ugly Duck brought this upon himself? God's punishment for his depraved behavior?

 

If the Ugly Duck saw her staring at him, he shouted, "Stick it up your ass, sister." He made a gesture with his hand; she was sure it meant something dirty. Wi-hish. Ugly.

 

Soon after, the loud Amazonian parrot disappeared.

 

Mona thought the landlord had called from America, to tell the Ugly Duck that he had to get rid of the parrot, but thebawab offered another explanation:

 

"The Ugly Duck gave all his money to the handsome young boy with the curly hair. The Ugly Duck doesn't even have apiastre for lentils. He sold the parrot to a local pet shop for grocery money."

 

"But isn't he working at the American University in Cairo? Doesn't he have a good salary?" she asked.

 

Who were these foreigners who came to Cairo?

 

Mona hinted to the bawab that she would tip him extra for information about the Ugly Duck. He obliged her with rumors, his own speculations and the occasional fact: She heard that the Ugly Duck's appetite was so voracious that he had sex with the thin, peasant guards who sat guarding the embassies in the neighborhood. She heard that the Ugly Duck propositioned a hustler in the neighborhood. He was drugged and robbed of three thousand U.S. dollars. Why was he keeping so much cash at home? For a week, she didn't see the Ugly Duck.

 

Had he moved?

 

No one seemed to know.

 

Every night she stayed up late until the early hours of the morning, hoping for a glimpse of the Ugly Duck on his balcony. Mona was concerned. Had something terrible happened to the Ugly Duck? Had one of the Ugly Duck's lovers taken revenge upon him?

 

"I think the Ugly Duck has been murdered," Mona told her husband.

 

"Your whole life has been taken hostage by the Ugly Duck," Mohammed said. "Can't you think about something else? You are neglecting your wifely duties."

 

He certainly did not mean sex, but the wondrous creation of heavy, floury beshamel lasagna. She had no time to make lasagna. She had to find out what happened to the Ugly Duck. Did she know anyone, anyone at all who worked at the American University? Mona had a childhood friend, Khadija who was a secretary at the Registrar's office, yes, although they weren't close anymore. Khadija droned on about the achievements of her children, who had emigrated to Cleveland, Ohio and were driving Toyota Land Cruisers. Of course, this annoyed Mona and reminded her that her own son was doing nothing except watching Adel Imam comedies. Even though Mona had no interest in seeing Khadija, she invited her over for tea and date cookies. After three hours of listening to the tiniest mundane details about Khadija's grandchildren, Mona ventured, "We have a neighbor who teaches at the American University."

 

Just how exactly was she going to ask about the Ugly Duck, when she didn't even know his name?

 

Khadija yawned, like an overfed cat. "I can't keep all the American professors straight. They come. They go."

 

"I think something terrible might have happened to him. He just disappeared," Mona said.

 

"He probably left the country. Was he a special friend of yours?" Khadija said, giving her a wink.

 

Mona was alarmed—Khadija could not keep her mouth shut.

 

"Not really," Mona said, trying to sound casual.

 

"You know, Americans are not like us. They're not sentimental. They move at the drop of a hat," Khadija said.

 

"Listen, I've enjoyed seeing you, but I have to go. Moustafa wants white lasagna for lunch. You know, how much time cooking takes."

 

Mona feigned a laugh. "Yes, these men take up all our time." She hated how false she sounded. All those hours with smug Khadija had been a dead end.

 

The next day, the bawab reported that the Ugly Duck had moved to another flat in Garden City. Two days later, he told her that the Ugly Duck had returned to America.

 

She became suspicious. Suppose the bawab had been telling her stories the entire time?

 

"How can the Ugly Duck be in Cairo and America at the same time?"

 

The bawab swore that he had seen the Ugly Duck, riding in a taxi, late one night, two large suitcases, tied to the roof of the car.

 

After the summer, another American man moved into the Ugly Duck's flat. The new man never opened the windows in his flat. The curtains were always drawn.

 

Mona even bought an expensive pair of binoculars, but it did her no good. She could not see through the heavy brown curtains. It was just not the same. This new man was dull compared to the Ugly Duck.

 

Once the new man, who had a heavy brown beard, appeared on the balcony. Was he Spanish? He was wearing a heavy vest, as if he were going to go hunting. Why had the man with the beard come to Cairo? Did he like young boys as the Ugly Duck had?

 

Another time, the new man flung open the doors to his balcony and noticed the empty parrot cage. He started to sweep up the sand and bird shit on his balcony, but went back inside after five minutes of sweeping. Lazy boy! Just like Amir. The pink broom leaned against the shutters for weeks. Unlike the Ugly Duck, he never sat on the balcony. His flat was shut like a tight bubble. The empty parrot cage swung in the wind.

 

One Friday, when she was staring over at the empty balcony, Mohammed said, "Now that the Ugly Duck is gone, you can get rid of the blue heron."

 

"No," Mona said.

 

"If you don't get rid of the bird, I'll divorce you," Mohammed said, in a menacing voice.

 

She yawned. Somehow, she did not believe him and ignored the threat.

 

Three days later, the blue heron disappeared.

 

She tore apart her apartment, searching for the blue heron. In every closet. In all the laundry baskets. Under every bed. But why would the blue heron hide, when he had reclined so comfortably on her bed?

 

The heron had flown. Nothing remained except for the smell of fish, the bird droppings and feathers.

 

She even dug through the bottom of the garbage chute. She found: empty plastic mineral water bottles, Dominoes pizza boxes, bits of string, dead red roses, the rinds from honey-dew melons, coffee grounds. She had almost given up when she found the heron, wrapped in a paper bag from the Lebanese restaurant, Tabboula. There he was, buried with white plastic containers of eggplant and hummus. Red pomegranate oil dripped into his eyes. Ya meskeen. The pitiful one.

 

Someone had strangled him. He would no longer yaw. She was stunned that someone had murdered the bird. At the same time, she did not wish for him to return to life. Mohammed was right. She had never really loved the blue heron, but had bought him for revenge. But even her revenge against the Ugly Duck had turned into something else.

She used the paper bag as a shroud to cover the limp face of the blue heron. She even said a prayer for him. "Allah Yarmuh."

 

"Someone killed my bird," Mona told the gatekeeper.

 

The gatekeeper seemed surprised. "Really? I thought he would live forever."

 

"Do you know who killed him?"

 

"Hard to say," the gatekeeper said, scratching his chin. "Might be someone in your family. Might be one of your neighbors. Excuse me for saying this, but the noise was unbearable."

 

Mona climbed the stairs, instead of taking the old-fashioned cage-like elevator, which somehow reminded her of the Ugly Duck's cage for his parrot. Her husband was not at home—whining about his precious white lasagna. She opened the door to her bedroom and looked in. A few of the blue heron's feathers had settled into the center of their marital bed, where the bed sagged. She was glad that Amir was not lounging there. Waiting to be served his tea, like a pasha. She had spoiled him. Things might have been different if she had had another child. But she would never forget the joy she had felt when he was born. He was so tiny, so vulnerable. Such a happy baby! When he smiled, there was a cute dimple on his chin. She could never resist kissing him on the chin.

 

That was a long time ago.

 

 

Copyright©2007 Gretchen McCullough

Published July 2007 Storyglossia.com