Knock-knock-knock went my boots on the hard sloping pavement of the Tore Crossing. Within a few steps, however, my footsteps emitted a crunch-crunch-crunch as I flattened foot-shaped patches of snow to the ground. Brr. I pulled my scarf higher around my cheeks, so that only my eyes remained exposed, and even my eyes were partially shielded by their frosty lids to keep out the cold. Feeling that mittens didn’t do the job well enough, I tucked my hands into my armpits to warm them.
Thus I proceeded across the bridge, hoping to get to my classroom on time. I longed to check my watch to relieve myself of the suspense, but I hadn’t the willpower to draw my hand out of my armpit. So I hurried my steps as much as my stiff legs would allow.
At about the crest of the bridge something caught my eye. I approached it. It was a human figure, all right, a girl in fact. She looked a year or so younger than me, about thirteen, fourteen-ish, and was standing by the railing, looking out along the frozen river.
Her condition was shocking. While everyone in sight was huddling into warm, thick winter jackets, she had nothing but a fall coat on. She had neither a scarf nor mittens and her crop of straight brown hair was bare. She wore a skirt that reached mid-calf and loafers on her feet. She was not dressed for winter at all.
As I approached I wondered if she was indeed frozen. She stood unmoving on the bridge, staring at the expanse beneath and beyond it. But when I was about two meters away from her she turned to me. Her eyes were radiant, although I could not tell whether out of wonder or horror. She clasped a book to her breast, in a way that reminded me of the girl on the front cover of the movie The Book Thief’s CD case. She turned to me and pointed to something in the distance.
“Look,” she murmured, facing again in the direction she pointed, “an angel…”
I looked in shock. I saw no angel. All I saw was an endless screen of grey and white that stretched towards the horizon.
“Over there,” the girl said. I tried to follow the direction of her finger. She seemed to be pointing to the lamppost that hung over the river. At last I discovered what she must have meant. Perched on the top of the lamppost, camouflaged in the whiteness of the world beyond it, was a pigeon. I did not see anything extraordinary about this pigeon, except that it was white as clean snow from beak- to claw-tip. The bird cocked its head this way and that, as though listening or looking about expectantly. I frowned. I am not one of those people who believe angels take the form of white pigeons—and anyway I’ve only ever heard of them taking the form of white doves—and thus I was reluctant to acknowledge to this girl that I was seeing what she wanted me to see.
“Do you see her?” the girl asked me, her awestruck face turning to me again.
“All I see is an old pigeon,” I replied, knowing my answer sounding unsympathetic, but she wanted me to answer, didn’t she?
“No—on the lamppost,” she insisted.
“Yes, on the lamppost. There’s a pigeon perched there.”
“No… it’s not a pigeon… see, her flowing white gown? Look, she’s beginning to play her harp.”
The pigeon made no such indication, but within a few second began to call, emitting low caw, coo, caws in slow succession. The girl’s face became one of pure joy. I took a step back, unable to decide whether this girl was just imagining and pretending or truly was a mental case. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt, and pretend that she was a mental case. People who imagine things are fine, but people who imagine things and expect you to see them are plain irritating.
The girl suddenly gave a gasp. The pigeon turned to face her and gave a call.
“I reckon she’s calling me,” the girl said. She set a foot on the stone railing of the bridge. The bird cocked its head to a side and then fluttered off. In a spring, the girl was in the air, her thin jacket and skirt and hair lifted by the wind, and in half a second, she disappeared. There was a dreadful crack resounding on the ice, and my heart went limp. Dozens of people suddenly came rushing from their various ways to examine the damage. I dared not look. I was dreaming. I had to be. I rushed down the bridge, every limb in my body trembling uncontrollably. When I set foot on the opposite bank of the river, I could see the gathering crowd at the edge of the ice. I shuddered, unsure of whether I should join the crowd and see what became of this strange girl, or dissociate her from myself entirely. Despite that I was ready to cry with fear for what I might see, I felt compelled to perform the former. I took three steps towards the crowd. I could hear what some of the people were saying now.
“She’s near frozen,” a man leaning over what must have been her body remarked, sounding troubled. “She probably didn’t even know what she was doing.”
“She probably thought that the railing was a stair or something and climbed up,” a woman near the man suggested. Someone was ringing up the ambulance and a lot of people were calling to each other and shouting for help. I debated whether to push through the crowd and see what had become of my late acquaintance or run from the spot immediately.
It was then I noticed a dark object on the ice. I approached it warily. I recognized what it was—the girl’s book, lying open, face-down on the ice. I felt within me a strong desire to pick it up. It’s not yours, I told myself. But on the other hand, someone would take it eventually, or the book would succumb to the elements. It was all perfectly fair that I took it. I took to the ice, cautiously setting each foot down so that I wouldn’t slip.
I had only two steps to go when something happened. A bird, a pigeon, a white pigeon, flapped down from the sky and sat resolutely on the spine of the book. It appeared undisturbed by the commotion about it, and unconcerned that I was only a meter and a half away. Suddenly I changed my mind. I hadn’t a right to take this book; it belonged to someone else.
Presently the ambulance drove up, its siren yowling and light flashing. The medics dismounted, carrying a stretcher with them. I turned away so that I would not have to see the corpse. A startled sort of cooing alerted me, and I looked up. Perched on the lamppost was a pigeon, a white pigeon, and beside it, another pigeon on par in the way of spotless white.