The Parrots Read online

  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.

  Postscript

  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.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  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.

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  Copyright

  Pushkin Press

  71–75 Shelton Street, London WC2H 9JQ

  Original text © 2012 Fandango Libri srl

  English translation © 2013 Howard Curtis

  The Parrots first published in Italian as I Pappagalli

  This edition first published by Pushkin Press in 2013

  ISBN 978 1 782270 38 6

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from Pushkin Press

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