The Parrots Read online

  So there are countless reasons to remain on this Godforsaken planet that was long considered the only world, if for no other reason than to learn the end of our story: what the author of our lives has not yet taken the trouble to finish.

  But my urn is broken, and now that I know the answer, I can remain no longer.

  Am I an impostor?

  Excuse me, I have to turn on the light.

  It had come all in one go. Without hesitation or correction. Never in his entire career had he written such clean, precise sentences. As he typed away at the keyboard, he had felt as though he were carving the words on a wax tablet with a stylus. He read it again. It was concise and effective. No need to change a single comma. He wasn’t so bad after all. What a pity he’d had writer’s block all these years. He sighed, and sent the letter as an e-mail attachment to all the contacts in his address book (publishers, newspaper editors, friends, whores, acquaintances and strangers). Then he switched off the computer and his mobile and went out. The Great Moment had come.

  But were all those people passing him distractedly as he walked towards the river, that bovine humanity dragging itself God knows where, bustling through the streets to achieve its dubious plans, to satisfy the vanity of its desires, aware of his greatness? Did that human herd have even a vague idea of the privilege that had been granted them in brushing against an artist of his calibre—especially in the final moments of his vast, incomparable life?

  Apparently not. One man even knocked him with his elbow and didn’t apologize.

  The Writer had reached the centre of the city and was walking now in the shade of the lime trees, alongside the ramparts beside the Tiber. He looked at the people on the pavements, the cars and mopeds speeding by just a few metres from him.

  So was it for them that he had brought his books out over the years? Were they his invisible readers, the silent enzymes that swallowed his nonsense? The inscrutable sherpas who carried his heavy books up to the top of the best-seller lists? In other words, were they his employers?

  The Writer descended the stone steps that led him to the banks of the river. It was getting towards evening. At that hour, people were coming out to get a bit of fresh air. In summer, they set up an artificial seafront on the river bank, filled with stands and stalls, a permanent movida. The Writer walked through it with a touch of annoyance.

  He walked until he was so far away that he no longer heard the commotion.

  At that hour, the sky of Rome turned a soft, hazy pink, the kind you see in certain frescoes of the Neapolitan school; at that hour the courier, after ringing in vain at the entryphone, left the prize from Torchio Wines outside The Master’s gate; at that hour the staminate cells in The Girlfriend’s uterus were at work constructing organs and tissues; at that hour the lights were being lit in the grounds of Villa Naike and the waiters were getting their first reprimands from the maître d’; at that hour The Writer’s press officer was starting to get worried because his mobile was switched off. At that hour The Second Wife was looking for him in the house, at that hour a few people had already read his e-mail. At that hour The Writer, protected by the shadows of evening, stopped beneath the arches of a bridge.

  He undressed solemnly and laid his clothes on the bench. Then, as naked as Adam, he looked at the sunset, and the yellow-brown river calling him to it. He put one foot in the water.

  It was really cold…

  Even dying has its disadvantages.

  THE PRIZE IN SHOCK: Writer takes his own life a few hours before The Ceremony

  Victory by Suicide

  Stunning gesture by the favourite. Motive still unknown. Nothing to suggest such a tragic outcome

  FROM OUR CORRESPONDENT

  This is a victory without victors. The party we would have preferred not to go to, the article we would never have wanted to write. For once, the world of letters is speechless.

  It is a few hours to the proclamation of the winner. Everything is ready in Villa Naike. The lawn is like a billiard table, the grounds lit up as if in daylight, the tables allocated, the waiters lined up behind the buffet.

  Politicians, journalists, writers and figures from the fashion world and from cinema and theatre are strolling about the grounds exchanging the usual wishes and predictions. It is an event like any other, a prize ceremony like any other.

  And yet it isn’t.

  That something is not right is clear from the nervousness at the table of The Publishing Company that has won The Prize most often over the years. The Publisher, who is looking very elegant in his pinstripe suit, has not touched his food, nor has he issued any statements. The press officer’s face is drawn as he paces the grounds nervously in search of a secluded corner to talk into his mobile phone. The dinner is served, but there is still no sign of The Writer. His plate is empty. He has not even appeared for the usual interviews. There is irritation among the organizers and the members of The Academy and disappointment among the photographers and cameramen, who in his absence have to make do with the other two finalists.

  Visibly excited, The Beginner grants every interview he is asked for. “For me, getting this far is already a victory,” he says. “But there are other things in life.” He winks at his Girlfriend, who is half hidden behind the assembled journalists. “At my age,” declares The Master, who is wearing a Panama hat and a creased linen suit, “I think I’m entitled to win. To be quite honest, I shouldn’t even have to compete. They ought to give me The Prize as a matter of course.” Someone teases him with the question: “Why isn’t The Writer here yet?” “I don’t know,” says The Master with a laugh, “maybe he’s afraid of losing.”

  But in fact it is much worse than that. The host takes his time as he recalls the names of past winners and thanks the sponsors. Then it is the turn of the Mayor, who says that The Prize “is part of the history of our country”.

  The final vote has not started yet. The audience are getting restless and noisy. The press officer is conferring with The Publisher, who finally stands up and goes to The President of The Academy. He whispers something in his ear. The President of The Academy shakes his head. He goes to the chairman of the jury. The chairman of the jury nods gravely. Then they call The President. There is a heated discussion at the back of the platform. The assistants come and go frantically. The audience want to know what is happening. By now it is obvious that something is wrong, but what?

  In the end, after much consultation, the host gets up on the platform. This is going out live on the media. He looks ashen, and his voice breaks as he reads a brief statement: The Writer has taken his own life.

  There is a murmur of dismay, incredulity, sadness. Then silence. A grim silence like that preceding a storm. Everyone freezes, like statues in a living Nativity. Mobile phones start ringing, all together, like crazed cicadas. The news is out, and people are calling. They have heard about it on television, they want confirmations or denials. Rumours are already circulating: it is said that there is a suicide note, although it has not yet been broadcast. After a while, the host returns to the platform. Yes, it is true, the note has arrived. It is more than a note, it is a long letter. The chairman gets up on the platform and reads it.

  A few people weep. Others laugh. Others still remain silent.

  The Prize committee gather. Something like this has never happened before. The rules do not even have any provision for it. After what seems an interminable time, The President of The Academy moves away from the group and gets up on the platform to make an announcement. After much consultation the jury has decided to award The Prize to The Writer, in his memory. It has been a difficult decision, and the controversy begins raging almost immediately. The other two finalists are besieged by the press.

  “It’s a real tragedy. I’m deeply shocked. I’ve lost a friend, and literature has lost one of its leading lights. I hope this sacrifice makes us stop and think. We are all responsible for what has happened…” These are The Publisher’s first, spontaneous words. The Beginner w
eeps as he tries to brush off the TV cameras. “Leave me alone,” he says. “I have nothing to say, I only want to go home.” “Today, Justice died,” says The Master. “This theoretical victory is a travesty.”

  It is almost midnight, and the journalists who are waiting to file their stories can wait no longer. From Police Headquarters comes the news that some clothes have been found on the banks of the Tiber and The Writer’s Wife has identified them: they are her husband’s. The search is beginning for his body. Villa Naike is emptying. The west wind is starting to blow. The sultry heat is fading. But not the grief.

  F.B.

  Silent, like gloves fallen from the pockets of distracted pedestrians, an untold number of rooks (Corvus frugilegus) lie in the snow at the sides of the roads in Sweden.

  In the Po Valley, hundreds of turtle doves (Streptopelia turtur) cover the fields and ditches with a carpet of coffee-coloured feathers.

  Thousands of red-winged blackbirds (Agelaius phoeniceus) rain down like advertising leaflets from the oblivious sky of Arkansas.

  There’s nothing unusual in this, says an expert. Hundreds of similar cases occur every year, some reported in the media, some not.

  There are those who maintain that the blackbirds died because of a trauma suffered in flight, perhaps a sudden change in temperature between the different layers of the atmosphere, a patch of turbulence or a violent storm. Others claim that the birds flew too close to radar waves, or that they were electrocuted by high-tension cables.

  Some ascribe the deaths of the rooks to a trauma caused by fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Scientists are unconvinced by this theory.

  There are those who hypothesize that the turtle doves were poisoned, or died of indigestion after eating sunflower seeds. The test results will soon be known, according to a veterinarian.

  There are many who maintain that it is a bad omen, a threat of divine punishment, recalling the Old Testament and the ten plagues of Egypt (Exodus 7:14).

  It could also be a variation in the Earth’s magnetism.

  If only men looked up at the sky, they would see the swallows turning acrobatically, the jackdaws returning at sunset with twigs in their beaks, the crows coming to rest on the lamp posts, the sparrows pecking at pots of basil on window sills, the egrets closing their wings like umbrellas with broken ribs, the bitterns drying their feathers in the cold morning wind, the water rails patrolling the banks of the river, the hungry kites flying up from ruined towers, the heavy-winged screech owls crossing the dream-laden night.

  If only men looked up at the sky, they would see this and much more. But they don’t.

  We can die if no one looks at us.

  EPILOGUE

  (Four months after The Ceremony)

  IN 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.