The Parrots Page 7

  The Master temporized.

  “Take mine,” said The President, like a literary butler, passing him the microphone as if it were a torchbearer’s beacon.

  The Master stood up somewhat clumsily from the armchair in which his buttocks had been grounded. In his crumpled jacket, his swollen feet moving unsteadily in his cork sandals (poets are allowed to dress badly), he walked towards his pulpit. The lights dimmed until all that remained on the stage was a Caravaggesque face, a head topped with unkempt white hair and suffused with light in the midst of darkness. Silence fell over the auditorium. The Master dug his glasses out of his pocket again. He cleaned them on his shirt tail, which was sticking out of his trousers, and put them on. He searched in his jacket pocket and took out his notebook.

  He opened it.

  He closed it.

  He opened it again.

  He closed it again.

  The differences that exist between a conventional imitation moleskine notebook and a urination diary would not have escaped a trained eye, from the format—the notebook being smaller and more compact, the diary larger—to the cover—the former stiff with elastic, the latter pliable. Not to mention the paper—slightly yellowish for the notebook, strictly white for the dairy—and the layout—simple horizontal lines for the notebook, a preprinted grid complete with headings (volume of urine in the measuring cup, time, voluntary urination, involuntary episode, intensity and urgency of the stimulus, notes, etc.) for the diary.

  Even though the differences are so marked, it would be unfair to ignore the slight analogies presented by the two objects. Let’s see: both have dark covers and… well, that’s it really. There aren’t actually any others.

  But to weak eyes looking for an object in a dark room, such fragile similarities can become fatal. Eyes deceived rather than supported by the other senses. Like a hasty touch, which trusts the first object within reach, even though positioned, it should be said, deceptively close to the second object.

  That’s why it is hardly surprising if, leaving home in a mad rush, because of the delay, in the absence of electricity (the fuse box had blown again), in the dark and without glasses, with The Director of The Small Publishing Company continuing to sound his horn implacably to hurry him up, The Master had committed a fatal and perhaps even unforgivable error.

  The Master now stood at the lectern in front of the packed auditorium with his urination diary in his hand. Time flowed like liquid, emptying the space of his consciousness and filling the space of the theatre, as he cleared his throat and read in a steady voice:

  Time: 5:30

  Volume: 340 ml.

  Urination: voluntary

  Intensity: moderate

  Urgency: pressing

  Notes: farted

  The Master stared with his little eyes into the auditorium: all he saw was a kind of human vineyard, rows and rows of heads turned towards him.

  The theatre was silent for a moment, holding back from delivering its verdict. The first to break the stalemate was The President, who started clapping, in a somewhat lukewarm manner at first, but eventually triggering a thunderous round of applause from the audience.

  “You’ve really surpassed yourself. In the concision of these lines, worthy of the greatest Hermetic poets, we see a painful attempt to convey the tragic nature of existence, in a classical form invigorated by postmodernism, which recovers and recycles heterogeneous material…”

  The Master was a poet.

  Everything looks better from above. Even Rome. The great roads choked with traffic, the sick old snake of the walls, the flying saucer of the Pantheon taking off over the oblivious ruins, the empty streets and the arenas orphaned of champions, the elusive aqueducts and decapitated columns, the arches sinking beneath the weight of their own beauty, the silent temples and dazzling squares and glittering fountains, the steps flooded with light, the motionless obelisks propping up the distracted skies, the palaces of the popes opposite the beehives of their servants, the martial towers and peaceful belfries, the remains reduced to cats’ cradles and the monuments to birds’ nests, the turgescent domes and hidden cloisters, the red tennis courts like chips on the green baize of the meadows on the Via Cassia, the unauthorized swimming pools in the villas on the Via Appia and the luxuriant palms in the gardens of the Quirinale, the abandoned parks and muddy ponds, the gilded bridges over the river that descends to the sea escorted by the traffic, which follows the current or rows against it, swimming as if with flippers towards the mountains that feed the Tiber, the jungles of aerials and satellite dishes on the sun-baked roofs, the pines and lime trees and bitter oleanders along the avenues, the geraniums on the balconies and the brazen jasmine and the discreet lemons on the terraces of apartment buildings. From above, ours is quite another story.

  PART TWO

  (One month to The Ceremony)

  YOU KNOW THAT EXERCISE they do in theatre workshops and in workplace groups to increase collective harmony and mutual trust among the members? Blindfolded or with our eyes closed, we let ourselves fall backwards, into the arms of the person behind us, who is waiting there ready to catch us.

  The only person into whose arms The Writer would have let himself fall backwards, blindfolded or with his eyes closed, was The Publisher.

  That was why, when The Publisher had invited him one bright Sunday to lunch in a restaurant not far from the Villa Borghese, even though it was a place they never went, The Writer had been trusting, and had let himself fall backwards into his arms. And when, after octopus in jelly with potatoes and a fillet of monkfish, a bottle of Sauvignon and another of Rhine Riesling, The Publisher had suggested they go for a walk in the zoo to clear their heads of the wine and pointless chatter, The Writer, even though he had found the suggestion unusual, had been as trusting as before. And again he had let himself fall backwards into The Publisher’s arms.

  “Poor things,” The Writer said, stopping in front of the aviary where the birds of prey were kept. “Don’t you feel sorry for them?”

  The big, dark birds looked like monks sleeping on the roofs of their hermitages.

  “Not me,” The Publisher said. “They’re the stupidest and laziest animals in the entire zoo.”

  The Writer was surprised by this statement and looked at the aviary with closer attention. A falcon (Falco peregrinus) was cleaning its feathers with its beak, hiding its head beneath its wing. A condor (Vultur gryphus) with an obscene bare neck was scouring the ground in search of leftover food.

  “Everyone feels sorry for them because they think they’re intelligent. But what they have in their eyes isn’t sadness or resignation. It’s emptiness. Absence of thought. People say ‘He’s as sharp as an eagle’ when they ought to say exactly the opposite.”

  The Writer watched as a majestic eagle (Aquila chrysaetos), sitting dark and motionless on a branch, let out a powerful stream of excrement that fell to the ground like huge drops of rain after a tremendous drought.

  “Everyone feels sorry for the birds. Nobody feels sorry for the foxes.”

  “The foxes?”

  “Did you know that foxes are tireless walkers? They can cover more than eighty kilometres a day, and they go crazy in that shitty enclosure that’s no more than half a hectare.”

  The Writer didn’t know that.

  “They grind their teeth, their eyes are bloodshot, they tear out their claws because they’re constantly trying to dig their way out under the fence, can you believe that? Come, I’ll show you the foxes.”

  The Publisher took a threatening step towards The Writer, who raised his hand compliantly as if to say, “I believe you.”

  “How many votes do we have?” he said, in order to change the subject and chase from his mind the image of those mangy crazed foxes, walking round in circles behind the barbed wire.

  “A hundred and thirty for sure.”

  “And how many do we need to win?”

  “A hundred and fifty to be home and dry. But a hundred and forty, a hundred
and forty-five might be enough.”

  “Should we beware of The Master?”

  “You mean the old man?”

  The Writer nodded.

  The Publisher shook his head. “The Master’s all washed up. He won’t even get to The Ceremony.”

  “But he’s a finalist.”

  “He’s sick. He has cancer.”

  “Are you sure? How do you know?”

  “I have my sources. I’m a friend of The Urologist who’s treating him.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “No. It’s bad. If he gave an interview about his illness, or talked about it on TV, he could gain votes. But he’d never do it, he’s too proud.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I had. Thinking for my authors… of my authors,” he corrected himself, “is my job. Anyway his publisher’s a small one, he doesn’t scare me. They won’t be able to raise many votes, just a few old acquaintances who are so desperate they’d sell their souls for a reprint.”

  The Writer laughed, though he wasn’t sure it had been a joke.

  “And what about The Beginner?”

  “He’s the horse to bet on.”

  “But his book’s no great shakes, is it?”

  “Have you read it?”

  “No, but I’ve been told that—”

  “Read it. Now there’s a book.”

  “…”

  “And how many votes do they have?”

  “A hundred and twenty, a hundred and thirty. More or less. Like us.”

  “How come they’ve got so many?”

  “It’s his first book. And when it’s your first book, they forgive you everything. Don’t you remember?”

  “No.”

  “And besides, he’s young. Do you remember the ‘brand new’ sticker we put on the cover of your book? He doesn’t need it: his face is the sticker.”

  “But he’s a greenhorn, I read his interview, a naïve mishmash of clichés…”

  “Listen, I’m going to be frank. We’ve known each other for thirty years. You know how much I respect you as a man, and how much I admire you as an artist. You also know that a powerful press office and the biggest publisher on the market aren’t enough by themselves. You also need the books, and yours—no offence intended—isn’t a good book.”

  The Writer did not take offence, but those angry foxes grinding their teeth behind the barbed wire had appeared in his mind again.

  “In fact, to be quite honest, your last three books were nothing to write home about.”

  “…”

  Rabid foxes were throwing themselves against the electrified fence of The Writer’s thoughts. The Publisher took him by the arm and started walking, pulling The Writer’s compliant body after him.

  “Let’s say a trapeze artist in a circus gets one of his moves wrong on the first night of the show. Luckily, his partner has good reflexes and catches him. The number goes down well, the audience don’t notice a thing and happily applaud. Then, when the show is over, the two of them clear things up in the caravan, and that’s the end of it.”

  The two men began circumnavigating the aviary.

  “Now let’s say the trapeze artist makes the same mistake on the second night. This time his partner misses him… The audience hold their breath, then applaud in relief. There was a net underneath. When the show’s over the owner of the circus goes to the trapeze artist’s caravan. He comes out after a while…”

  The Publisher stopped—they had now walked halfway round the aviary—then resumed walking, again slowly dragging The Writer with him.

  “Now, let’s say the trapeze artist gets the same move wrong for a third night running. There’s complete silence under the big top. Everyone’s holding their breath, thinking—”

  “As long as there’s a net,” said The Writer, interpreting the audience’s thoughts.

  “There had been. The circus owner had had it taken away.”

  “…”

  “And you know why he had it taken away?”

  “….”

  “Because he loved the circus more than he loved the trapeze artist.”

  The two men fell silent. They had done a complete circuit of the aviary and had come back to their starting point. Were there foxes in circuses? Trained foxes? Were there even such people as fox-trainers? The Writer wasn’t sure. It might be impossible to train them, but surely they could be tamed. Once, as a child, he had seen a fox come and eat at the back of a restaurant, taking the food from the hands of a kitchen porter who had managed to overcome its mistrust. Word had got around and people talked about the restaurant more because of that tame fox than because of the cooking, and over time the kitchen porter had ended up becoming more famous than the cook. The kitchen porter had continued putting aside leftovers, until one day he had waited a long time but the fox had not appeared, and was never to appear again.

  The Publisher resumed his speech, shooing the foxes away from The Writer’s thoughts with a stick.

  “On the fourth evening, the circus has a new trapeze artist. You have to win. That Prize is a multiplier.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How many copies do you usually sell?”

  The Writer said a number that wasn’t too far from the truth.

  “Multiply it by ten.”

  “Tell me what I have to do.”

  “When the time is right, when the time is right… Look.” The Publisher pointed at a sleepy eagle which had broken the enchantment of the aviary by throwing itself on the condor: it was flapping its wings and jabbing with its beak, trying to tear a fragment of rotten flesh from the claws of that lugubrious road-sweeper.

  “Don’t you feel sorry for them?”

  “No.”

  The Publisher and The Writer headed for the exit.

  “And how are you getting on with the next one?” said The Publisher just before stepping into the chauffeur-driven saloon that was waiting for him outside the zoo gate.

  “The next what?”

  The Writer was distracted: he was thinking again about the birds of prey dozing slothfully on their perches.

  “Come on, now, the next book, wake up!” said The Publisher, getting in the car and pulling the heavy door shut before hearing the usual disappointing reply:

  “It’s coming along.”

  A writer is strong only when he is writing. He is respected and feared as long as the others don’t know what he is writing. When the book comes out, in the light of day, he becomes vulnerable. A writer writing a novel is like a serial killer who’s keeping a victim locked in a cellar. Every evening, he slides under the cellar door a tray with a little water and stale bread, just enough to keep his victim alive, anticipating the moment when he descends the cellar stairs to have his fun with her…

  But what happens if the victim manages to break free? To escape from her cell, run out in the street and scream HELP at the top of her voice? Then the serial killer is in danger. But not because he’s afraid of being caught, that’s the least of it. Now that he’s lost his toy, the partner in his secret games, whom will he torture when he goes down to the cellar?

  Himself, would seem to be the most reliable answer.

  So was our Writer strong, sitting there in his study? And how did his victim in the cellar feel? Did she shake with fear every time she heard footsteps in the corridor?

  No, sir. The victim in the cellar wasn’t trembling or laughing. There wasn’t actually anyone in The Writer’s cellar. Only dust and odds and ends accumulated during a lifetime.

  The Writer wasn’t strong for a simple reason: he was not writing. But it wasn’t one of those terrible writer’s blocks that reduce writers to impotence, like those clients who weep and cry for their mothers in a prostitute’s lap—no, it was nothing like that at all. It wasn’t that our Writer wasn’t writing now, at this precise moment, or even during this period of time, or in the last few years. He really wasn’t writing. Or rather, let’s be quite open ab
out this: he had never written.

  Yes, all right, in his computer there were endless strings of 0s and 1s, which, joined together in bits, and subsequently in bytes, would form words, and these words in their turn, recombined in syntagma and paragraphs and chapters, would go to make up something that by pure convention human beings called “a novel”.

  What the strings did not say, and would never say, was that The Writer was not the author of his last novel, the one with which he was competing for The Prize, nor of the others that he had published. Or to put it another way: his novels were not his.

  Of course, for his readers, his publisher, his fans, and for the aspiring novelists who clogged his letter box with bundles of letters and carcasses of manuscripts, this might be one of those items of news that make your glasses drop to the floor and bookshelves collapse. But it’s important to quickly pick up the books and put your glasses back on the tip of your nose before you hear “who wrote The Writer’s books”. Because if he didn’t write them, someone else did. And that’s the point we’ve reached.

  But who could it be? Well, in such delicate matters, it’s important to put yourself in the hands of someone you trust. Someone you more than trust, someone who’s family. MAXIMUM CAPACITY 8 PERSONS. The words were on a metal plate on the wall of the lift in the clinic. So yes, The Writer could read. As for writing…

  As soon as he had arrived in the city from the provinces, he really had tried.

  Big novels, filled with love affairs, lonely desperate men throwing stones at the stars, missed dates, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette ends and women dragged by their hair, raincoated figures walking the night streets, cars speeding by beneath the streetlamps, the glances of strange women behind the windows of buses: that was how he imagined the stories he would one day write.

  Corduroy jackets with patches at the elbows, long walks in autumnal parks, aged rum, cigars in a cork humidor, desks with leather tops and cherrywood bookshelves: that was how he imagined himself at the time when he’d be writing these stories.