The Parrots Read online

  Because women wait to say certain things. They keep them aside to use at the appropriate moment, like an anti-rape spray at the bottom of a handbag. This time, what awaited The Beginner, whose keys were turning at that very moment in the defective lock of The Girlfriend’s apartment, were unconventional weapons.

  One was hidden in her belly, the other beneath the lid of the plate on the perfectly laid table.

  “Here I am!”

  “…”

  “I’m late, aren’t I? Sorry, darling, but they just wouldn’t let me go at the bookshop!”

  “…”

  “What’s for dinner? I’m so hungry, I…”

  “…”

  “How smart you look! Are you expecting anyone? Only joking!”

  “…”

  “I’ll just go and wash my hands and…”

  “…”

  “But…”

  “…”

  “Where’s the cage?”

  “…”

  “What happened to the parrot?”

  “Sit down.”

  The Beginner at last realized that things were serious. Slowly and pensively, he sat down at the table, throwing an alarmed sidelong glance at the terrace barely illuminated by the moonlight: the dark shape of the cage was in a corner, but in that blackness it was hard to say whether or not its mystery tenant was at home.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Eat.”

  “But…”

  The flickering candle flame was between them. The Girlfriend moved the tip of her nose imperceptibly, indicated The Beginner’s covered plate, and with a nod invited him, or rather, challenged him to lift the lid.

  “Eat, before it gets cold.”

  The Beginner summoned up courage and lifted the lid. At the bottom of the empty plate lay a strange object. A kind of plastic thermometer with one vertical line and one horizontal.

  “What’s this?”

  “A pregnancy test.”

  “What… what…”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “…”

  “Wait there, let me get the second course.”

  “But—”

  “Here you are, help yourself.”

  The Girlfriend was on her feet in front of The Beginner, holding with one hand—holding it nice and high, level with her prominent cheekbones—a glittering silver tray with a domed lid that looked like a Trojan shield.

  She moved the tray closer to The Beginner’s face, put it right under his nose, then grabbed the lid by the knob, and removed it with a theatrical gesture.

  The Beginner just had time to see a sheet of paper imbued with the dull colours of an ink jet printer before the colours came together to form an image that struck him at the same time as strange and yet familiar: a photograph of the main entrance of a hotel in London, of a stretch of pavement in London, of a rucksack placed on that stretch of pavement in London, and a young man and a young woman who had just kissed each other in the open air of London.

  Then the tray came down on his head with a furious clang. This was followed by screams and tears.

  “Now get out,” she said when she had calmed down. “You and that damned parrot.”

  When he was small, in the endless prairies of time of his childhood, before the world of adults snatched him from freedom with the sadistic institution of school, he would spend whole days playing alone on a sun-drenched veranda, silently concentrating on deploying toy soldiers in imaginary battles. Even though he could not see his mother, and for long periods was so absorbed in his games that he forgot all about her, and even about himself, deep down he knew that her love was watching over him.

  He could feel the warmth of her affectionate presence, the invisible gusts of wind stirred by her movements, hear her walking down the corridors, crossing the rooms. Now she was in the kitchen, now in the bedroom, now she had gone down into the cellar to get firewood for the stove. He never wondered about her whereabouts, but at every moment he’d have been able to say where she was and what she was doing.

  Every now and again she would pass to check up on him, she would look through the doorway, lean in slightly and watch him from the back as he sat on the rug, bent over his battling armies. He would immediately be aware of that gentle intrusion (it was his loyal soldiers who warned him that there was an enemy behind him), but he would pretend he hadn’t noticed and actually increase his concentration on his games, striving to find a difficult balance for the one-legged soldier or for the sniper lying in wait on the roof, pretending to be even more engrossed in the game, thinking she would never want to break the fragile spell of his games.

  Sometimes, when his deception didn’t work and their eyes and smiles met, she would pass her hand through his hair and she would ask him what he wanted for a snack. It was always bread and jam in winter, and bread rubbed with tomato in summer.

  Now, in the air-conditioned room in the intensive care unit of the luxurious clinic in which The Mother was a patient, The Writer contemplated the carnations wilting in the vase (even though he’d watered them), and looked at his mother lying in the bed, somehow shrunken, enveloped in a spider’s web of sleep. He found it hard to recognize in her that attentive young woman who had passed her hand through his hair and made him so many snacks.

  And was that greying man at the foot of the bed really the natural development of the child who had played with his toy soldiers? Was that creature the result of the growth—and deterioration—of the organs and cellular structures generated by the woman now lying on the sheets?

  What malign kinship was there between these people? Through what perverse line had evolution passed?

  “What should I do, mother? Tell me! What should I do?”

  The Writer started crying.

  And now it wasn’t just a single tear, or watery eyes. No, The Writer was weeping shamelessly, the way we weep only when we think we are alone.

  His tears and sobs drew one of the nuns into the room. The Writer turned towards the door, mortified. Thanks to her boundless familiarity with suffering it only took the nun a moment to understand that there are moments when we do not need to offer comfort or consolation, but only to stand aside and let the spasm subside, the tears cease, in the expectation that life will regain the upper hand over death. She left the room.

  “I know you’re there. I know you know. I can feel it. So help me, mother. Help me. What should I do? Because I… I really don’t know any more… I… I’m so confused.”

  The Writer passed his hands through his hair and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb.

  “I want to win, I want it more than anything, is that wrong of me? Is it wrong of me if that’s the only thing I really want? If I had something else, I’d care about that, but I don’t have anything, I mean I have a lot of things, but it’s as if I didn’t have them, as if they weren’t mine, do you understand? They’re things I don’t need, things that if I didn’t have them, I wouldn’t even notice I didn’t have them. It’s like when a friend, someone you’re really familiar with, asks you what you want for Christmas or your birthday, and you start to think about what you’d like, and you can’t think of anything, then you think about what you need and you can’t think of anything, then you think about what might suit you and you can’t think of anything, and that means either that you have everything or that your mind has turned to mush, and you say, I can’t think of anything right now, I’ll think it over and tell you tomorrow, but then you think it over and you still can’t think of anything so you say just anything, something you already have, or at best something you can’t find, maybe you don’t know where it is but you don’t feel like looking for it, and I’ve thought this over, I’ve thought it over a lot, and I don’t know why, but this Prize really is the only thing I want, it’s my one wish, am I asking too much? I don’t think so. I don’t care about the next novel, I don’t want to write any more, or rather, I promise that if I win, I won’t write another line, yes, I know, mothe
r, I didn’t write anything before either… but try to understand, it’ll be different, I swear that… we won’t write any more, you and I, I promise I’ll get you published under your name, from now on I’ll let you sign everything you write…”

  The Writer took a bottle of water from the bedside table and drank. Then, feeling really hot, he undid one button of his shirt and sat down again next to the bed.

  “I’ve been told that… that there’s only one way to win, and you can’t even imagine which way, mother, or rather, maybe yes, maybe where you are now there’s no need to imagine, from there you just have to… to see. But… but it’s a very cruel way, a way that… that… You can’t ask a man to do something like that, because I really want to win The Prize, I told them, and they said, what are you willing to do? And I said, anything, I’m willing to do anything, and they said, if you’re willing to do anything, what’s the problem? Just do it. They’re persuasive, but it isn’t as simple as that, because this thing they’re asking for is… how can I explain, it’s all or nothing, it’s not just one thing and that’s it, it’s everything, it includes everything, it contains everything, do you understand what I’m trying to say?… I mean, how can I give up everything? I have kids, a beautiful wife, a dog, a house, a publisher, and that’s a lot, but it’s not everything… I don’t know if I’m making myself clear, I mean how can anyone ask you for everything? They can ask you for a lot, but not everything, that isn’t the same thing, don’t you see? I’m sorry, mother, I’m sorry if I’m boring you with all this… But I don’t know who to ask these questions, I don’t have anyone who’ll listen to me, I don’t even have anyone to speak to, I mean speak to openly, as we always did, you and I, I don’t have a dog to… or rather, yes, I do have a dog, but it’s not even mine, it’s my wife’s… and it doesn’t understand anything… but anyway I don’t have anyone, do you understand? Anyone of my… of our level, I mean… So where should I go? How’s this story going to end? Not the novel that’s in the running for The Prize, and not even the next one, I don’t care about that any more, partly because if you’re like this… and you don’t recover, then the novel stays as it is, the way you left it, half-finished… even though, if you made a little effort to recover, maybe in a couple of months we could finish it… but let’s forget about that, it doesn’t matter right now, what matters is that I want to know how this story is going to end. My story! I don’t know anything any more, mother, help me, I beg you, I feel so alone. Wake up, mother, wake up. And give me a sign, mother. What should I do, mother? Should I accept the proposition they made me?”

  Now you can choose to believe what happened in that room or not, because some people believe in souls, some in angels and some in devils, some believe they have been abducted by aliens, some believe in ghosts and some in voices, some believe they have come back from the afterlife just as there are some who believe in novels, and luckily every now and again there are also some who do not believe—and we are among them. The fact is that even the most sceptical will agree that if it hadn’t really happened it would be difficult, if not impossible, to believe that at the very moment The Writer calmed down and the room fell silent again like the burial chamber at the heart of a pyramid, the line of the EEG and that of the ECG underwent a sudden variation at the same time, the former registering the exceptional presence of beta waves among the predominant delta and theta waves, typical of the EEG of a patient in a coma following a stroke, and the latter the sudden rise of the heart rate from 90 bpm to 104, then an abrupt fall to 24 bpm.

  He looked at The Mother lying in the bed: she seemed like the princess in a fairy tale grown old inside her glass case because of a thin crack that had let in the mortal breath of time.

  He felt his strength fail him, his knees gave way faced with the gravity of the task, and he could not stop himself from kneeling at the foot of the bed. But it was not a nervous kneeling, a kneeling of surrender, rather a gentle bending, the inflection of a young tree to the imperium of the wind. The Writer laid his head on the sheet and closed his eyes. He again smelt The Mother’s smell, a mixture of roses, beeswax and corn, the smell his mother had had when she was young. Then he took off his moccasins, easing them off with the tips of the toe against the heel, and let them drop noiselessly to the floor. He got up on the bed, edging his mum across to find a place for himself, made himself as small as possible, his legs gathered under him, his back curved, his head tilted back, and lay down next to her.

  “So is that what you want, mummy?”

  Immature, false, cowardly, opportunistic, and then obviously arsehole, bastard, son of a bitch and more of the most common insults that go through the head of a betrayed woman and which it is unseemly to list to excess. Many of these words yelled by The Girlfriend echoed in The Beginner’s head like the gong ending a contest that hasn’t gone well: with such wake-up calls, it wasn’t easy to recover even a shred of concentration, not so much to confront fatherhood (but was that even true?) as to fill his rucksack with a few things and go and spend the night on a friend’s sofa, in obedience to The Girlfriend’s stern ultimatum.

  But the operation was more complicated than he had anticipated, and the rucksack had filled up with terry-cloth ankle socks, shin pads, knee-length socks, spare pants and shorts, but without a shirt, a pair of trousers or a jacket… as if The Beginner were not totally conscious of the gravity of the moment and was getting ready for his usual weekly game of five-a-side football.

  The Beginner emptied the rucksack and, for the third time, arranged—completely illogically but in perfect order—its contents on the bed, stubbornly determined to start again from scratch, because packing and unpacking that rucksack granted him the momentary illusion that it was possible to do the same with his life.

  A father. He was going to be a father. Was it possible? Ever since he was born he had always been a son, and in the eternal struggle between parents and children he had always been on the side of the children, serving the cause with loyalty and self-denial. Now he was being called on to betray that cause, to cross over and join the enemy…

  With these thoughts hanging over him, The Beginner lost himself in what he was doing, lifted his head from his rucksack and looked at the loft in which he had spent the last year of his life, and for the first time it seemed to him less ugly than he had always found it. Did he really have to leave this apartment? Was The Girlfriend quite serious? The modular bookcase with the hanging lamps, the kitchenette with the sink in which he had strained pasta al dente, the little fridge that had housed his cold beers, the tottering plastic tower of obsolete CDs, the little corner into which his computer had been squeezed, even the cage seemed to him…

  The cage.

  After the quarrel, in the indefinite interval that had gone by since The Girlfriend had gone out through the door and he had started fiddling with rucksack, wardrobe and drawers, The Beginner had forgotten all about the cage and his parrot. He had performed every action as if he were alone. And in a way he was, given that the bird’s state was just as inanimate as that of a mineral. Now that he thought about it, all his problems had begun with the arrival of that plumed guest. The Beginner went out on the terrace and looked at the cage where it stood shrouded in darkness.

  The parrot was motionless and black inside his cage, as if carved out of peat, with its head under its wing, almost as if ashamed for him, and for his wretched fate.

  “If it’s all your fault, I, I…”

  He approached threateningly, but was overcome with a sense of unease. Once the adrenaline of the quarrel had worn off, a blanket of despair had fallen over him: without The Girlfriend, without the security and strength she instilled in him, he felt lost. Finished.

  To face the last part of the competition tormented by the sorrows of love, to reply to the questions of the public in monosyllables, to sign every copy as if it were a notice of dismissal, to wander without appetite through the final—but crucial—cocktail parties, to appear tired and rumpled in interviews: n
o, now was not the moment to let go. He who needed peace and quiet to calm his basest instincts… What unforgivable carelessness!

  The Beginner leant on the window sill. An impertinent breeze was blowing over Rome, whispering to the flowers and trees waiting in the darkness to keep themselves ready for the arrival of the summer—and The Ceremony, of course. When The Beginner would raise The Prize in victory and dedicate it to…

  That was it. Now he no longer had anybody to dedicate it to. This sentimental accident was the last thing he needed. If he couldn’t somehow heal the split, he would have to find himself temporary accommodation, move his things, find a new girlfriend… all things that sucked energy, time and concentration away from writing, but above all away from the competition. Because only someone who has never taken part is unaware how stressful and demanding it is to win, or even to just try and win (nobody in his right mind tries to lose).

  Had the lucky star that had guided him so far abandoned him for good? The Beginner looked up in search of stars. But no star was shining for him. The sky, grey and orange with the reflection of the city’s lights, was like the unsafe ceiling of a tunnel full of seepage.

  He had to find some way to repair the damage. The Beginner still loved The Girlfriend. He loved her, and that meant a lot. Her gentle tolerance, her radiant good humour, her soft skin, her full lips like the beautiful, fatal fruit of a carnivorous plant, her ripe breasts, her long raven-black hair. Finding another woman, or women, wouldn’t of course be difficult. But one like her, so good-natured and easy-going, so patient and courageous, a woman who didn’t make waves, who wasn’t demanding but let him write in relative peace—well, a woman like that deserved to be reconquered. But how? Not with scenes, not with bouquets of flowers, not with grand gestures. A letter. Yes, that was it, The Beginner would write her a letter. An old-fashioned, irresistible, desperate—or rather, heart-rending—love letter, handwritten. Was he or wasn’t he a good writer? No woman, let alone someone like her, would be able to resist a letter like that. Anxiously, The Girlfriend would gently peel the flap of the envelope and be infected with love, as if the missive contained anthrax.