“It’s beautiful,” he said.
“And destructive. They cover everything in shit. You can see people all over the city in the morning washing it off their cars and mopeds.”
“But how do they do that? All move together?”
Cleo had read about this when she first moved here, and she was happy to know the answer. “Each starling is only ever aware of five other birds,” she said. “One above, one below, one in front and one either side, like a star. They move with those five, and that’s how they stay in formation.”
“But who’s the leader? Who decides which way they go?”
“There isn’t one.” Cleo smiled. “That’s the mystery.”
They walked through a piazza where tourists idled around a marble fountain. A warm breeze lifted the hair from the back of their necks. The air smelled of petrol and olives. They passed a cobbled alley mottled with shadow where a pair of teenagers kissed against a moped. At the other end, a gypsy woman hiked up her skirt and urinated into a puddle. They walked on.
“Who are your five, then?” asked Cleo. “The ones you watch?”
“My five people?” Frank thought for a moment. “Well, Zoe’s one, of course. Santiago, too.” He looked at the ground, which indeed was scarred with bird shit. “And Anders.”
“I’m glad,” said Cleo, meaning it.
“And now Eleanor.” Frank glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She was nodding slowly.
“And you. That’s five.”
“Me?”
“You,” said Frank. “Always you.”
They looked at each other. Cleo’s face was serene as a cathedral. All around them the city was settling into evening. A child cried for its mother. A bottle popped open. A motorbike roared. The starlings flew on.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel took over seven years to complete, during which it was nurtured and improved by many, many people. I am grateful to the following: My agent Millie Hoskins, who understood the heart of this story and championed it from the start. My wish for all writers starting out is that they are lucky enough to find a Millie.
My editors Grace Mcnamee and Helen Garnons-Williams, who made editing this often unwieldy story a true collaboration and a joy. It is so much better for having had both your brilliant minds on it (it even has a plot now!). Also Jordan Mulligan and Sade Omeje, who came on board with such enthusiasm to see it through to publication.
The NYU MFA program, in particular my teachers Amy Hempel, Nathan Englander, Darin Strauss and Rick Moody. Those two years changed my life irrevocably for the better.
My writing cohort Isabella Hammad, Steve Potter, Liz Wood, and Allison Bulger for your insights and edits after the MFA.
My wonderful friends Adam Eli, Olivia Orley, Zoe Potkin, Sophia Gibber, Sean Frank, Dayna Evans, Corey Militzok, Margot Bowman, Max Weinman, Maya Popa, and many others. Thank you for encouraging me to keep going, and for everything else.
The sober community of downtown New York, who really did love me until I could love myself. I am here because you carried me.
Emily Havens, for all the phone calls, and for always reminding me that there is a plan in place infinitely better than mine.
Karen Nelson, for providing a safe place to go deeper and get honest. I am a better person, and writer, for knowing you.
My mother, my first reader, who taught me to throw my heart forward and run to meet it. This book is for you.
My father and the love of language you instilled in me. Thank you for knowing I was a writer before I did.
My funny, beautiful, clever, audacious big sister Daisy Bell. I will always be your kitten.
My beloved biggest siblings Holly and George, and my cousin Lucie, for showing me the way.
My grandmother Judy, from whom I inherited a love of both sugar and mischief.
My grandmother Edie, whom I never met, but whose dream of becoming a writer lives on in me.
And finally, my Henry. Thank you for loving me, for marrying me, and for creating a life with me far too honeyed and harmonious to ever make for interesting fiction. I’m yours.