At first, he didn’t realize what might happen, but when he eventually caught on, he forced himself back, trembling, against the cliff face, rubbed his body against it as if that would help him to achieve a firmer hold. It only needed the bird to touch one of his hands, brush against his shoulder, bump into his foot — and he would hurtle down to his death, would die with the green box only a couple of miserable yards away from him, would die just when salvation was so desperately near. But the bird came closer and closer, worst of all was the assured way in which it was progressing, oh, if only it had screeched, had flapped its wings madly, tried to peck him with its beak; but no: only this silence waiting to be shattered by violent action, whose terrible nature he couldn’t yet conceive.
Then it made one final lunge towards him, down towards his right hand, and in desperation he let go, groping in thin air, rasping his nails against the cliff, and for one agonizing second he could feel himself slipping, the whole cliff seemed to collapse and spin round with him, blood seeped out from under his shredded fingernails, then everything calmed down again gradually and he regained his grip with his right hand, hugging the cliff as tightly as he could.
The bird was now still again just a couple of feet above his head, waiting motionlessly, ruthlessly calm and staring vacantly at the horizon; its red-tipped beak was pointing downwards all the time as if it could see, as if it took pleasure in observing his fear. Was the bird already suspicious, did it know he was there, was he merely being given the moment of grace by his executioner? Oh, he didn’t dare breathe although his chest was fit to burst from the terrible pressure; he slowly let go again with his right hand, stood up on his toes, grasped a spike of rock with his left hand so tightly that he was in pain, and stretched his right hand out towards the bird, fingers outstretched; he grabbed it by the neck, and then like lightning, with a jerk more violent than he thought himself capable of, he hurled its heavy body into space. He could hear the swishing noise as it fell, and heard it flop into the water. Sweat was pouring off him, he was shaking in every sinew and he suddenly forgot where he was, was about to take a step backwards, and had already raised one foot in the air before he came back to his senses. With eyes closed, he clambered slowly down the cliff face like a big, grey caterpillar, and it was only when he reached the safety of the last few feet and he saw the green box lying between the stones like a green die that he once again became aware of his hunger.
As frenzied as a hound following a scent, he let go much too soon and crashed down on to the sands, the sea filled his ears with a deafening roar and its spray splattered all over the sand and the pebbles, a rainbow quivered back and forth before his startled eyes and the smooth, empty, half-buried iguana skins glistened in the wavy sands. His body came alive again, it was like waking up from a dream of a dream, he was no longer watching himself, his movements were no longer skeleton-like; even his hunger was transformed into delicious pain, but it didn’t hurt, merely warmed him. Oh, how he wanted to wallow in his salvation, enjoy it, taste it, lick it with his voluptuous tongue.
Agonizingly slowly, he crawled over the sand to the box; with eyes closed, he extracted every ounce of pleasure from the rare perfumes flowing into him, opened his mouth and tasted pineapples melting on his tongue, bread from Myra and Lendarsis, long white loaves with green seeds and an aroma of cherry blossom, the smell of winter apples stored in the attic in old houses in the country, the spiced scent of meat and sawdust that filled the quayside warehouses also emanated from the box, this box was indeed infinite in what it had to offer, bottomless, it had everything: the fresh bread his brother the baker sometimes used to bake on winter mornings and sent home with little Christine, the smells from the frying pan at home and the big bag of sweets his mother always kept in a cupboard as a bribe to make him tell lies when his father used to ask if anything had been happening at home that week when he was working nights. In the end he embraced the box as if it had been a woman, pressed his ear against it and heard all the dishes in the world boiling, frying, bubbling away on the stove, being poured out, being carved up, sliced, ground, clinking of knives and forks, quick gulps and little belches, chairs being pushed back from the table and the muffled sizzling of soups in soup kitchens, the turgid slurping of greasy soups, a magnificent rumble as gigantic cauldrons were emptied, then nothing but the roar of the ocean cascading over him with its vast choir of voices, and then those voices, one of which, rancorous and obstinate, took possession of him, accused him with acid urgency, forcing him on the defensive.
Stupefied, but still inspired by all that had happened to him, he just lay there, clutching the box tightly to him and watching the dead bird bobbing up and down over towards the headland. If he turned over, he could see the big, silent flock of birds clinging high up on the cliffs, motionless, and the smoke from the little camp on the other side of the island, spiralling devoutly heavenwards; he was disturbed to note how it gradually changed direction and started wafting right across the island in a gigantic arc, straight towards him; was that someone running up there in the dry grass, maybe whoever it was who had killed the iguana, or perhaps it was just some animal trying to scare him? Was someone standing up there now in that narrow exit, guarded by the birds, staring at him frenziedly? It would be very easy to loosen a little stone and throw it down at him. Scared in advance, uncertain in advance, already rocked back on his pedestal, he huddled in the tiny shadow of the box: such a big man and such a little shadow. The dialogue between Tim and the sea, so long prepared for, could begin at last: