The Parrots (28 page)

I
N A MODEST CASKET
in the middle of the nave lay the body of The Master.

A hurried ceremony, in a church on the outskirts of the city. Presided over by an elderly priest who couldn’t wait to go home. On the coffin, carried by The Director of The Small Publishing Company along with the undertaker’s assistants, a shabby wreath of flowers and a collection of poetry. When they left the church, the few mourners, instead of following the hearse to the cemetery, had drifted away.

In Rome it was late autumn. There was wind, and swollen clouds scurried across the sky. An oblique light hit the façade of the church and bounced off the roofs of the cars.

The Publisher descended the steps with his hands in his pockets. The Master had died alone, he thought, just as he had lived. A death as incomprehensible as it was absurd.

A short circuit. That was what he’d heard. The fuse had blown as he was inserting the plug of a robot vacuum cleaner, a kind of electronic broom The Master had won by gaining points from a mail-order wine company. The shock had been so great that, when the neighbour had found him, she hadn’t managed to prise his hand away from the broom handle, as if they had been soldered together into one mass. Definitely far too prosaic for the death of a poet.

That was all the rumour The Publisher had managed to pick up. What he did not know is that days later, at Torchio Wines, they had realized that the number of stickers sent by The Master was definitely greater than they had counted, because he had stuck
some on the back of the coupon. That changed everything. It wasn’t the robot vacuum cleaner he was due, but the first prize: the laptop computer complete with scanner, printer and a
distance-learning
course in IT. Except that where The Master was now, the distance really was too far.

After ringing the bell in vain and checking the address again, the courier had deposited the package outside the closed gate. A prostitute whose pitch was outside the house had signed for The Master, maintaining she was a friend of his. Which was true.

Fortunately, there are also happy things to report: The Girlfriend has given birth to a lovely, healthy baby girl who weighed 3 kilos 200 grams at birth.

The Beginner isn’t writing another novel, but has started work on a script for a not very good TV drama series. He is being well paid, but sometimes, before falling asleep, the thought hits him that he is wasting his time and ought to go back to literature. And there’s no reason to suppose he won’t, sooner or later.

The fauna of metropolitan areas is increasingly intelligent. Over the
generations
, the animals found in our cities have developed bigger brains and ever more sophisticated methods of adaptation. In a remarkably short time, the miracle of evolution has made them capable of adapting to an environment as rich in stimuli as the urban one. Among the many such animals, those that appear to be most comfortable in an urban environment are definitely the birds. And among the many species, the exotic ones have demonstrated a particularly surprising and unexpected ability to adapt. Along the avenues, in the heart of the city parks, or in the outlying districts, it is an increasingly frequent occurrence to come across multi-coloured specimens of parrots, like the ring-necked parakeet or the blue-fronted Amazon which—having escaped from their cages—have proliferated, driving away even the local bird life.

In nature, there are about 350 kinds of parrots. At least eighty-one have been recognized and studied. Some have never been domesticated. Only a few of these psittacines are birds that belong in aviaries or are raised as pets.

Outside the ring road, between uncultivated fields and abandoned warehouses, not far from an overpass, where the city comes together with the countryside without agreeing, is a house with a satellite dish on the roof. There are no other buildings in the immediate vicinity. Just a vineyard with withered grapes and a greenhouse with a shattered roof. The house is surrounded by a low wall of grey concrete ending in an iron gate. The plants have grown wild, the windows are closed. And to judge from the flyers heaped in the letter box, the occupants, assuming there are any, can’t be very sociable people. If there were TV cameras at the entrance, it would be the perfect hideout for a fugitive. But there aren’t any, there’s only an entryphone. Without a name.

The one The Publisher has just rung. The automatic gate has opened, and The Publisher has driven his Porsche into the courtyard.

Now he opens the boot and takes out two plastic bags with the logo of a big supermarket chain. Swaying because of the weight, he drags the bags to the door. He puts them down on a doormat that stinks of cat’s piss, sticks his hands in the pocket of his camel-hair coat, pulls out a bunch of keys, opens the door, picks up the bags again and, pushing the door with his shoulders, goes inside.

The light is off. There is no fire in the fireplace, of which all that can be seen is the blackened hood. The television, though, is on, tracing the outlines of things with its purple light. There is someone in the room. A man sitting in an armchair with his back
to the door. He has an electric heater next to him. He is staring at the screen. Seen from behind, his motionless head looks like the head of a huge match.

“Why are all the lights off? What are you doing in the dark?”

The Publisher puts the bags down on the table, next to a
typewriter
and a ream of paper. He turns the light on. The room is untidy and smells musty. Everything is covered with a thin layer of dust, like morning frost. There are paintings on the walls, landscapes and still lifes. In a corner, an empty cage with the door open. It was the former tenant’s. He had a magpie. Something is shining on the mantelpiece, an object rescued from oblivion, a brass plaque in a burnished frame. We are too far away to read what is on it.

“I got you a lot of shopping.”

The Publisher takes the bags into the kitchen.

The man does not reply, he is motionless, watching the TV.

The popular evening quiz is on. Millions of Italians, at that precise moment, are seeing that same studio, with the chessboard floor, and a set that looks like a police station the way they are depicted in comic strips. On the stage, the usual mystery man with lights trained on him, standing on a platform. Just below him, the usual contestant. Obviously not the usual one, they change every evening, but you’d never know the difference. The usual presenter—he really is the usual one—is squinting and frowning in an effort to convey the pathos of the moment: everything is in the balance, nothing is yet lost.

“Pasta, tinned tomatoes, tuna, beans, peas, canned meat…” The Publisher fills the cupboards, making a great racket with the cans.

“Shhh!”

The man in the armchair wants to hear the programme. There are captions over the image on the screen. The contestant has to guess the identity of the mystery man just from his physical features.

The presenter reads from the outsize facsimile of an identity card that he has in his hand: “For 50,000 euros, this man
is a handwriting expert, makes Christmas cribs, tests mozzarella cheeses…”

In the background, a choir of trumpets tries to increase the suspense, but it’s so emphatic, so insistent, it sounds like a village band rehearsal.

The presenter continues: “…
is a local government councillor, took part in the 2000 Sydney Olympics
…”

“I’ve brought some newspapers and magazines. Shall I leave them here?”

“Wherever you like.”

“I couldn’t find the herbal teas you asked me for. They don’t have them in the supermarket here. Maybe the next time I’ll try in the centre…”

“Let me hear.”

“I say… he makes Christmas cribs!” the competitor ventures.

“Is that your final answer?” the presenter asks.

“Imbecile.”

“What?”

“It’s obvious he doesn’t have the hands for it.”

“Who?”

“Him.”

The man indicates the screen with his chin. The Publisher turns to look.

“For fifty thousand euros… do you make Christmas cribs?” asks the presenter.

The music draws out the sense of expectation.

“No, I don’t make Christmas cribs,” the mystery man replies.

“What a pity!” the presenter says, turning to the contestant. “You’ve just lost 50,000 euros!”

“What an idiot.”

The man turns. We know him too well to introduce him again. He is a man who was afraid of dying.

“Were you at the funeral?”

“Yes.”

“Was anybody there?”

“A few people, not many.”

“What about mine? When are we doing it?”

“You can’t have a funeral without a body.”

“You promised.”

“I’m working on it, give it time. There’s a bishop we’re
publishing
a book by, maybe he’ll agree to—”

“I’m tired of staying here. When are the papers coming?”

“It’s a matter of days. A month at the most.”

“A month!”

“Weeks, I hope.”

“I want to be on the island by Christmas. I saw the satellite weather report: slightly cloudy, 31ºC.”

“You’ll be there, don’t worry.”

“…”

“…”

“And the book?”

“Still on top.”

“How many copies so far?”

“Nine hundred thousand.”

“…”

“…”

“How’s your mother?”

“She’s making progress. She can’t talk. But she’s started writing again. She’s the ideal writer.”

The Publisher smiles. The Writer doesn’t.

“I’d like to see her before I leave.”

“That’s not a good idea. She’s still quite poorly.”

“How are my girls?”

“They’re fine. I’m taking them to the mountains for a bit of skiing.”

“…”

“…”

“What about The Baby?”

“We’re taking The Nanny. But in a couple of years she’ll be wearing skis herself. Children never fall. They have a low centre of gravity.”

“Right… What are your sleeping arrangements at the hotel?”

“Shall I open the window just a little? It’s stuffy in here.”

“It’s all the same to me.”

The Publisher goes to the window and opens it. It’s cold 
outside
. The countryside is bare and bleak. The Writer also stands and looks outside. What he sees is a snow-white beach and a turquoise sea.

“I’ve started writing again.”

“Oh.”

“By typewriter. Like the old days.”

“Will you let me read some of it?”

“Not for the moment.”

“Can you tell me anything about it?”

“No. But it’s coming along. It’s coming along really well.”

“I’m pleased. If there’s nothing else, I should go.”

“Go.”

“I’ll send you a postcard.”

“If you like.”

The Publisher goes towards the door, then stops.

“Shall I close the window for you?”

“I’ll close it.”

The Writer is still looking outside. In the distance, a dark stripe in the emerald green: the barrier reef.

“All right.”

The Publisher leaves.

The quiz has finished. The Writer switches off the TV. There is a sudden loud noise, something falling. The Writer turns. It’s a
vase, which has fallen to the floor and smashed. On the window sill sits a bird.

A black parrot.

The parrot spreads its wings, flies cleanly, expertly and
soundlessly
across the room and into the empty cage, and lands on the perch.

The man and the bird exchange looks. They know each other.

The Writer has written a good book: 230 pages, roughly 400 grams in weight, 300 short of the weight needed to break the floor at The Academy. He is unsure whether or not to send it to them. He would like to compete for The Prize. Under a pseudonym, obviously.

For many and various reasons, I would like to thank: Mario Desiati, Manuela Maddamma, Sandro and Manuela Veronesi, Edoardo and Carlotta Nesi, Edoardo Albinati, Domenico Procacci, Laura Paolucci, Alessia Polli, Francesca Comandini, Tiziana Triana, Giovanni Ferrara, Giovanni Veronesi, Ugo Chiti, Gianfranco Calligarich, Marco Vigevani, Marco Di Porto, Fabio Genovesi, Marco Bologna, Andrea Canepele, Vincenzo ed Elisabetta Bologna, Susanna Boscarelli, Gianna Bologna, Giuseppe Ragazzini, Federico Ferrone, Andrea and Francesca De Micheli. And Lisa Nur Sultan, who I forgot to thank in the first book, and all those I’ve forgotten to thank in the second.

Pushkin Press was founded in 1997. Having first rediscovered European classics of the twentieth century, Pushkin now publishes novels, essays, memoirs, children’s books, and everything from
timeless
classics to the urgent and contemporary. Pushkin Press books, like this one, represent exciting, high-quality writing from around the world. Pushkin publishes widely acclaimed, brilliant authors such as Stefan Zweig, Marcel Aymé, Antal Szerb, Paul Morand and Yasushi Inoue, as well as some of the most exciting contemporary and often prize-winning writers, including Andrés Neuman, Edith Pearlman and Ryu Murakami.

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