The Parrots (22 page)

“I really like you, you son of a bitch.”

“I like you too, you bastard.”

Quite tipsy by now, the two men embraced with masculine vigour.

“Then we’re almost there,” said The Publisher when The Writer had let go of him.

“Yes.”

The Writer’s face clouded over. He stood up abruptly from the desk, went over to his collection of LPs and became absorbed in combing through them.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking…”

The Writer still had his back to The Publisher. He chose a record with a colourful sleeve.

“Have you already thought about…”

“About…?”

The Writer turned abruptly and looked The Publisher right in the eyes.

“About ‘how’?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“All right. Besides, in art, we judge by the results, not the process.”

The Writer wiped the record with a cloth until it gleamed like petrol and looked at himself in the shiny surface: he saw a handsome man, with an arrogant little smile and a slightly wild look in his eyes.

“It’s getting late. I’d better go.”

The Writer carefully placed the record on the turntable.

“I’d like to hear a bit of music.”

“You can do whatever you want this week. In fact, you should take advantage.”

“You can bet on it.”

The Publisher left the room.

The needle crackled and the record started turning slowly like an eddy in the middle of a pond. The Writer turned up the volume up to maximum. Heather Parisi’s 1980s hit
Cicale
boomed out. The whole house started shaking. He took off his shoes and started dancing barefoot, with his eyes closed, on the cold floor.

“Darling, is everything all right?”

The agreement was clear. He was the one who was confused. If they wanted to get back together, he mustn’t win The Prize. “How” didn’t matter—what mattered was the result. He had to lose, as The Girlfriend had asked. Or do everything he could not to win, as he preferred to put it in order to beautify the concept.

But was there a way he could make sure of not winning? And above all, was it worth it? Maybe the decision had been a hasty one. Men do unthinkable things for women, that’s true, but the proof of his love which The Girlfriend was asking of him was more than unthinkable—it was inconceivable.

How many writers would do it in his place? How many of his colleagues would give up the recognition that would for ever rescue them from the obscurity in which they were vegetating? Very few. Maybe nobody.

Moreover, although it was true that The Beginner was young, and had plenty of time, all the time in the world, to write other books and win other prizes, it was equally true that he also had all the time in the world to make other children, with other women.

Emboldened by these thoughts, and playing on her
compassion
, he had managed to obtain a late-night confrontation that had begun on the landing and had ended up in the bedroom, demonstrating how even the most implacable logic melts in the heat of bodies.

In again making love with The Girlfriend, instead of smelling the stale odour of burnt soup he had savoured the pulp of a fruit, a semi-adulterous sensation which had reminded him of his adventure in London.

But all these sensations, savoured in the night, had faded by morning, when we repent not only the things we have done but also those we are about to do. As The Girlfriend finished
dressing
, resentful at having sold her pride so cheaply, The Beginner remained in bed, wrapped in the warmth of his sense of guilt, buried in the certainty that he had once again made a promise he was in no position to keep.

“It was a mistake. It’s best if you don’t stay here.”

“I’m going to take a shower.”

“OK, but then go. What happened last night doesn’t wipe out our agreement.”

“But darling, I—”

“We’ll talk about it after The Prize.”

“Whatever you like.”

“I’m going. Make sure you shut the door when you leave.”

The Girlfriend grabbed her handbag, took a light coat from the wardrobe and left.

The Beginner looked at the sliding door that led onto the terrace. The new pane of glass gleamed in the morning light, like a widescreen TV tuned to Rome.

As naked and hairy as a hominid, The Beginner got up and pattered over to the coat stand. He searched in the pocket of his jacket. In his notebook he had numbers his press officer had strongly advised him to call. Numbers of people whose votes counted and could alter the outcome of The Prize.

Uncertain votes, votes offered and suffered, bought and sold, promised and denied, votes that at the uttering of a single word could sway from one side to the other.

“Hello? Good morning! Sorry to disturb you, I’m calling about The Prize… We met at the presentation in the theatre… Do you remember? What? No, the other one, the young one, that’s right, that’s right… Well, I was calling to… I don’t know how to put this, it’s about your vote… What? Oh, I’m very pleased you liked it, thank you, thank you, no, as I was saying, about your vote… Of course… I understand… Oh, you’ve already voted for me… No, no, of course I believe you, I wouldn’t dream of… It’s just that, actually, I wanted to ask you NOT to vote for me… What?… Am I joking?… Well… Yes, of course I am.”

“We’re not moving!”

The Director of The Small Publishing Company beat on the steering wheel with his fist.

“What’s happening now?”

“How should I know? There’s always something in this
fucking
city!”

“Excuse me, why aren’t we moving? Has there been an accident?”

The Master had lowered the grimy window of the van and tackled a traffic policeman who was talking into his walkie-talkie.

“No, there’s a transport strike.”

The policeman went back to his radio.

“There’s a strike.”

“I heard.”

“What time is it?”

“Six o’clock.”

“Shit, we should have been there by now.”

“Take the Aurelia Antica, we can cut across.”

“If only that guy would move…” The Director of The Small Publishing Company hooted his horn. “That’s it, get out of our way!”

The van, once white, now blackened by diesel fumes, managed to free itself from the steel vice of the other cars and turned onto the old Roman road.

“Tell me the street again.”

“Lungotevere something… I can’t remember the exact address. But I know where it is… Anyway, if it’s ‘Lungotevere’, that means it’s by the Tiber. We can’t go wrong.”

“Yes, just like the event at the Parco della Musica!”

“That again? That was an oversight.”

“Let’s not get into that. But are you sure there’s any point to these things?”

“Of course there is.”

“So tell me, what’s the point of presenting a poetry book to a rowing club?”

“Don’t worry. That’s my job.”

The Director of The Small Publishing Company accelerated, and a light came on on the dashboard.

“No!”

“What is it?”

“The radiator. The water’s overheating.”

“Now what do we do?”

“It’s the washer on the cylinder head. I was supposed to change it but they were asking eight hundred euros.”

“Like my advance! So what do we do now?”

“Let’s look for a drinking fountain. The first drinking fountain you see, I’ll stop.”

“There!”

“Where? That’s a rubbish bin!”

“Oh, sorry, I can’t see from a distance… There!”

The Director braked suddenly and turned right. A big scooter passed him with a roar.

“You go and get the water, I’ll look for a rag to open the valve.”

“How do I get the water? I need something, a bottle.”

The Director searched in the van. Under the seat he found a bottle of citron juice that had gone flat. “Here.”

The Master took it and walked to the drinking fountain. It was a quiet street. Beyond the automatic gates, the perimeter walls and the hedges, there were glimpses of well-tended drives, guard dogs and big, powerful cars.

The Master leant over the drinking fountain. He unscrewed the top of the plastic bottle, which slipped from his hand and fell into the drain below the fountain. Before throwing away the little bit of citron juice that was left, he suddenly felt like tasting it. It was a disgusting, sugary swill.

The Director of The Small Publishing Company was standing by the steaming bonnet with a rag in his hand, trying to unscrew the top of the radiator. The Master started back towards the van, with the water overflowing from the bottle, so icy that it steamed
up the plastic. On the way, he slipped on something sticky, lost his balance for a moment, swayed, then straightened, thinking he had been betrayed by his wet shoes.

“Here!”

The Master held out the bottle to The Director, who did not turn, his head still stuck under the bonnet. A cloud of white smoke, like a lighting effect in a disco, billowed from the engine. The two men avoided it with a timely leap backwards. They waited for the water in the radiator to stop boiling. Then The Director topped up the water, slammed the bonnet shut, and the two of them got back in the van, hot and weary.

“Bloody hell, what’s that stench?”

“What stench? I can’t smell…”

A foul smell of shit seemed to be trapped in the passenger compartment, as if a demon had suddenly appeared from the sulphurous pit of hell. The two men looked at each other in embarrassment, each secretly hoping he was not the source of that stink. Unfortunately one of them had to be. And it wasn’t The Director.

The Master hadn’t slipped because of the wet ground, but because he had stepped in a huge pile of dogshit, the kind with which the pavements of Rome are covered, yellow and as mouldable as clay, a substance that was no longer shit but was not yet something else different from shit, a product the chemical industry would call “semi-processed”.

“It can happen. They say it brings good luck.”

“What do you mean, good luck? These things always happen to you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Maybe you have the evil eye.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Have you ever checked?”

“I don’t believe in such things.”

“If I were you—”

“I never thought you could stoop so low.”

“I want you to get out now. Go on, move. Get that muck out of here, I can’t breathe!”

The Master got out of the van to get a better view of the
situation
, which was becoming increasingly compromised. Because if there’s anything worse than stepping in one of those turds, it’s stepping in them with uppers like a tank. And this was the case with The Master: an old pair of worn but magnificent Timberlands, the only decent shoes he had left, which he wore on special occasions.

The Master looked first for a patch of soft grass and started scraping away like a rooster.

“Let’s go, get a move on!” The Director roared from the van. “We’re an hour late!”

The Master examined the results but was not satisfied. So he started to scratch around, stooping over, with his eyes on the ground. At last he found a piece of wire next to a rubbish bin, took off his shoes, placed them on a low wall, and patiently began the hard work of chiselling away at the cracks in the soles.

“I’m going to leave you here!”

The Director started the engine and set off again.

“No! Wait!”

The Master ran after him barefoot. The Director slammed on the brakes and let him catch up. The Master, hair dishevelled, fringe sticking to his forehead, hoisted himself on board, panting.

“What about my shoes?”

“Leave them here.”

“Am I supposed to come barefoot?”

“How do you think Jesus Christ preached?”

“He was a prophet.”

“And what are you?”

“A poet.”

“Better still. They forgive poets everything.”

“…”

“Is there anything else, or can we go?”

“Just one thing.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Do you really think I have the evil eye?”

“Yes.”

From the edge of the little wall, The Master’s shoes watched the white van disappear in a cloud of black smoke like a squid in its own ink.

If only The Writer and The Beginner could have exchanged lives! If only they could have swapped their respective miseries and converted them into something very close to happiness! Without realizing it, they were both basically trying to be what they were not. Like everyone else, in fact.

Didn’t one of them miss the carefree lightness of his
beginnings
? What he wouldn’t have given to feel again the emotion he had once felt!

And didn’t the other perhaps envy the solidity of the veteran? God, what he wouldn’t have done to gain a modicum of gravitas!

Unfortunately it couldn’t be done. And that was a real problem. Yes, a big problem.

Even more so for The Master, who didn’t even have anybody he could have swapped his life with, because, apart from The Prize, behind his wrinkled brow, beneath the stubble of his silvery hair, between the calcareous synapses of his brain, he did not even know what he wanted. Except everyone’s harm.

Death has an enviable wardrobe. He never wears the same thing twice. On one occasion he knocks at the door modestly dressed, another time he arrives at the appointment in monochrome grey, or we may see him working in blue overalls or moving around the lanes in a green smock. If he presents himself naked, it is only because he has not had time to get dressed.

The Writer, who had time—although not so much now—was hesitating in front of his open wardrobe. He wasn’t choosing the clothes in which he would take The Dog for a walk, or even the suit in which to go to that evening’s private view. He was
choosing
something important, the garments he would wear for The Great Moment—that was what he had decided to call it, because it sounded more solemn and reassuring.

The Writer took out the hanger and placed it on the bed as if it were a soldier fallen in war. He removed the cellophane wrapping and gazed at the magnificent morning suit in which he had remarried. Jacket, trousers, shirt, waistcoat… Only socks, tie and braces were missing. The Writer took some underwear from a drawer and put it on. Then he patiently recomposed every piece of that beautifully tailored jigsaw puzzle. As he did up the trousers, he had his first surprise: he had put on weight. In the last few days he had rediscovered many appetites. Apart from making love with The Second Wife almost every day (a fact by which she herself had been surprised, but not annoyed), he had eaten and drunk a lot. He would wander around the house feeling hungry, always returning Oedipally to the fridge. Especially in the dead of night, when everybody was asleep and he was alert, his head burning with thoughts, he liked to violate the territory of the kitchen. To break into that Swiss bank vault and finish whatever leftovers there were, soft cheese in little foil wrappers, slices of cooked ham, cold mashed potatoes and dried-up omelettes, even the leftovers of The Baby’s pap had been finished off with cynical, voracious satisfaction.