A surprised and slightly hurt expression on one side and a disapproving one on the other. Both eyes at once is not an option for a toucan. What a task it is to heft the huge sun-coloured beak over first one shoulder, then the other, to focus on the world. ...in some large species the bill measures more than half the length of the body. Despite its size it is very light, being composed of bone struts with little solid material between them. Why the bill is so large and brightly coloured is still unknown. As there is no sexual dimorphism in coloration it is unlikely to be a sexual signal
It came from Ecuador in my hand luggage and is the weight of a leaf. Nestling in the palm of my hand now, it has almost lost its reproachful air. This is not the first time it has fallen from its perch and traces of paper glue still mark the join between head and rosy bill; one time it was blown to the floor by a gust of wind and it has not been returned to the rest of the painted balsa flock strung across the kitchen window. I let it fly to the tree in the front room, where, with alternate eyes squeezed shut, it can watch the street, or me at my desk. This is the train of events responsible: The diary entry read: Nigerians at noon. Because I am not a proper businesswoman, I agree to accept a translation job on a Sunday. I recognised the Hide and Seek telephone manner – you pick up the phone and say Hallo? The echo comes: Hallo? You wait and then say Yes? They say Yes? Hallo? Yes? Yes? Hallo? Hallo? The first time this had happened I let it go on and on, wanting to try the patience of what I thought was a cold caller from another continent. Then my conscience pricked me and I realised it was indeed
a cold caller from another continent and that he had called me to get help.
Because I am not a proper businesswoman I wait in, way past noon. Way past half past noon. Way past two o clock. Every so often they phone in and say traffic is bad in Edmonton. Sometimes it was Enfield. Or Edinburgh. Or the end of my road. They come into my house, one of them smelling faintly of aftershave. This is a problem for me, but we'll be quick – we won't even sit down. One man shows me a sheaf of small-minded print and pages of questionnaire. I think I may be some time. I think I probably won't get paid properly. I don't think I am going to be robbed, raped and murdered. I am right.
Because I am also full of compassion, angry that small-minded print is sent out in this way, I know that he is brave in not throwing it straight away, and I know he is frightened by it. I go through the small-minded letter and identify when he must respond by and where to and what for. We start on the forms. I ask him where he was born. He says, Nigeria, Embassy. I am intrigued. He shows me the way his birthplace Emisu is really spelt and the possibility of his mother having climbed into the diplomatic compound as her waters were breaking disappears.
After nearly two hours the last box is ticked: Are you or have you ever been a barge-owner on the River Rhine? Did you spend any time in an East German prison? Are all these records correct? Do you have private pension arrangements in your capacity as a handicapped civil servant deputising for a colleague?
Now we must talk about money. I have already asked whether he is in work, so I suppose, apart from the hopelessness of my position, I could have insisted on more. I told him I was making a special price. He shook his head. Not refusingly, but as if he no longer understood the world. Eventually we all shook our heads in the same way and after some very polite three-sided regretful smiling and murmuring, the two of them put their wallets together and bank notes were slowly extracted, one by one, until I nodded, still smiling and murmuring. We shook hands and they left.
Because I am sensitive as well as un-businesswomanlike and compassionate last night my eyes were burning from the residual chemicals in the air left by the perfume. I cannot sleep. My head buzzes all night. Because ambushing molecules are still lurking this morning I open the windows wide. Because I have not found my minimalist persona, there are obstacles. An Indian carved table slices into my Achilles tendon as I balance on the edge of the antique sofa bench. The wind surges through the room, driving the deadly chemicals further in rather than sucking them out. I hear the sound of a toucan in free fall.
Because I am un-businesslike, and compassionate and sensitive and un-minimalist and because I have let in the howling winter gale, the bird sits on my desk diary and looks at me warily over its shoulder.
There is a special providence in the fall of a toucan.
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