The Parrots (21 page)

He had searched everywhere, foraged in every hole, explored every lair, but to no avail. Like a disappointed alchemist, he had finally closed the magic book, drawing a bitter lesson from the experience.

The object that The Writer had been looking for in women, either did not exist, or was so inaccessible it could not be reached with the rudimentary means at his disposal.

The same thing had happened with The Second Wife, his relationship with whom, initially based on sex, had turned into an exchange of devotion and tenderness—her devotion to him, his tenderness towards her, of course.

The erection had been the most visible of the changes, but not the only one. After communicating his decision to The Publisher with a laconic message in the dead of night, other things, too, had changed.

Just for a start, the morning toast: the very next morning it had struck him as fragrant and flavoursome (had The Filipino fallen into line?).

And even in his dealings with people he had regained a sense of involvement and a willingness to help which were surprising, at least to him.

Walking along a street in the centre, he had noticed water gushing from a crack in the pavement and flowing into the gutter. How many litres of water were being wasted like that every hour? Disturbed by the thought, once he reached home he had called the number used to report breakdowns to the municipal water company. But there was no reply, so he had called the fire brigade, who had passed him from one office to another and then kept him on hold for about ten minutes. The strange thing was that as he had sat there listening to the music they played, a nocturne by Mozart on a loop, he hadn’t been at all irritable, but had actually hummed along to the pleasant melody with his eyes half closed. When the loud voice of a woman firefighter had interrupted the nocturne, he had almost been upset. The Writer had reported the leak and the woman had thanked him.

There is no way to demonstrate it, but The Writer who had hung up was a better citizen—and man—compared with The Writer who had called. And even if it wasn’t true, that was how he had felt.

That night, he had fallen asleep thinking about the municipal workers who would fill in the crack, and had even dreamt of swimming naked in an irrigation ditch of icy transparent water, between the stones and the trout, and immersing himself in the municipal springs that quenched the city’s thirst. The benefits of this invisible transformation continued to manifest themselves in the days that followed, making him increasingly open and accessible to the world.

On Sunday, instead of sitting in his study reading the
newspapers
, he had offered to take The Second Wife and The Baby for a walk.

It was early, and the park was quiet and shady. He could even
hear the murmur of the fountain, which for once was not drowned by the exhausts of the cars or the ambulances speeding past with their sirens blaring. The swallows (
Hirundo rustica
) fluttered through the air like commas and brackets that had escaped from a giant typewriter. The Writer had offered to push the pram, and had done so with ease and naturalness, as if this—and not writing—had always been his profession.

The Second Wife, her heels sinking into the gravel, soon got tired of walking. The Writer, on the other hand, would have liked to stay a while longer in the park, because with every circuit it seemed to him that he was capturing unusual details, details of the world that only revealed themselves to those who were willing to capture them: a heart carved into the bark of a tree trunk, a squirrel clambering up an oak, a porn magazine sticking out of a rubbish bin.

“Do you want to stop? This isn’t some kind of riding school.”

The Second Wife collapsed on a bench and lit a cigarette.

“It’s really nice here…”

The sun tickled the baby’s face, and she laughed without reason, intoxicated by sensations that were new to her. And not only to her.

“You’ve always got a cigarette in your mouth…”

The Writer tore the cigarette from The Second Wife’s lips and threw it under the bench. The Second Wife did not know whether to be surprised or annoyed.

The Writer smiled at her. Then he leant over the pram. The Baby had just fallen asleep.

“Don’t wake her!”

Gently, The Writer picked up The Baby and held her in his arms. On his shoulder, he could feel the warmth emanating from that tiny head. The Baby had almond-shaped eyes, a squashed little nose and a round face. The Writer took one of her little hands and looked at it: the pink nails, the folds in the soft, thin skin. More than a hand, it seemed to him the prototype of an
organ that would soon be going into production. The Writer put a finger in the palm of her hand, and with an unconditioned reflex The Baby squeezed it hard.

The Writer’s mobile vibrated.

“Can you answer that?”

“Where is it?”

“Right-hand pocket of my jacket.”

“…”

“I said right.”

“…”

“Hello? Hi. Yes, he’s with me.”

“Who is it?”

“Your publisher.”

“What does he want?”

“How should I know?”

“Can’t you see I don’t want to answer? You talk to him.”

“He can’t come to the phone right now, can I give him a message?”

“…”

“Hold on. He says can you drop by the office to talk about the cover?”

“Tell him it’s Sunday.”

“He says it’s Sunday.”

“…”

“He says it’s urgent.”

“Then tell him to come to our house.”

“He says can you come to our house?”

“…”

“He says all right.”

“Tell him we’ll expect him for dinner.”

“We’ll expect you for—hold on a minute.” The Second Wife covered the phone with her hand. “The nanny has the day off and you start inviting people to dinner!”

“What’s the problem? I’ll cook.”

The Second Wife was stunned. Since they had known each other she had never seen her husband go in the kitchen, except to look for a corkscrew.

“Are you there? He says… can you come… to… to dinner, he’s cooking.”

“…”

“Yes that’s what he said.”

“…”

“Hold on: what time?”

“Half past eight.”

“Half past eight.”

“…”

“He says bye.”

“Tell him goodbye from me.”

“He says goodbye.”

The Second Wife moved the phone away from her ear and looked at The Writer. The Baby had woken up. The Writer was sitting on the bench and was now jogging her up and down on his lap and singing her a nursery rhyme.

“Careful!” cried The Second Wife.

The Baby was bouncing on her daddy’s thighs and laughing like a drunk. A silvery, gurgling laugh, with her mouth and eyes wide open.

“Stop it! She only just pooed and you’re going to make her—”

The Baby threw up on The Writer’s beige trousers. The Second Wife glared at him.

“They needed washing anyway,” he said, with a mischievous gleam in his eye. Even The Baby seemed amused.

When you’re young it’s much easier to be sincere than to be convincing.

It is not at all easy for The Beginner to explain to The Girlfriend that pulling out of The Prize is much more complicated than it seems. No, not easy at all. Especially on the telephone.

“Believe me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I tell you that’s how it is.”

“It can’t be.”

“If I pull out it’ll be a real mess, it’ll screw everything up.”

“Who gives a damn?”

“Come on, I can’t involve other people when it’s my fault.”

“Then lose.”

“How do you mean lose?”

“Lose.”

“…”

“Compete and lose.”

“And how do I do that?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Don’t you think that’s enough? I slept on a sofa bed, my back’s broken… If I lose, will you forgive me?”

“Maybe.”

“Come on!”

“We’ll see.”

“…”

“…”

“Why don’t we meet?”

“It’s too soon.”

“Please. I need to see you.”

“After The Prize.”

“…”

“…”

“Darling?”

“What is it?”

“Tell me the truth. You’d never have done it.”

“What?”

“The baby.”

“…”

“You’d never have had an abortion.”

“…”

“Would you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I knew it!”

“I really have to go now.”

“Do you love me?”

“Hang up.”

“Do you love me?”

“…”

“Come back to me.”

“Do what you have to do first.”

“…”

“Lose. Or at least, try not to win.”

The vegetable carbonara was a success. Free-range hen’s eggs instead of bacon, courgettes lightly fried in oil, and onions—
actually
leeks or shallots would have been better, but it was Sunday and everything was closed.

Maybe a little too delicate, according to The Publisher (at any other time he would have openly called it “bland”), maybe “a little undercooked” for The Second Wife—the fact was there wasn’t anything left on the plates. Then with what there was in the fridge (veal cutlets and some leftover ham) The Writer had improvised a delicious Roman saltimbocca, picking fresh sage from among the herbs in the garden, herbs The Second Wife
was not even capable of recognizing, except on the spice shelf of the supermarket.

It was a small trauma for her to see The Writer standing by the oven in a black apron with the word
Bistrot
on it, nimbly chopping the onion, tossing the pasta with a sharp blow on the handle of the non-stick pan. She had never before seen him cook, and had never suspected that he had a passion for it, let alone the ability.

If the father of her daughter could cook without her being aware of it, what else was the man capable of? The thought made her shudder.

“Where did you learn to cook?” she asked him, her eyes open wide in amazement, as soon as The Publisher had got up from the table and gone to the toilet.

“I learnt when I was young.”

“…”

“When I was a student.”

“And why have you never cooked before?”

“I didn’t feel like it.”

Then The Publisher returned, and the conversation turned to other matters. Sitting at that round table in a circle of light, his elbows planted solidly on the peach-coloured tablecloth on either side of the art-nouveau china dinner service and behind the thick palisade of crystal glasses, The Writer struck The Second Wife as more affable and relaxed than she had ever seen him before. There was a light in his eyes, a light that made them gleam more than the silverware. And watching him serve the steaming pasta with a waiter-like allure, uncork the bottle of Bonarda dell’Oltrepò with a mere flick of the wrist, fill the glasses without spilling a drop, eat with a napkin tucked into the neck of his shirt, break the bread with his hands and clean his plate with it, she felt a kind of quiver of excitement: he was so manly and reassuring… For the first time since the birth of The Baby, she wanted to make love to him.

After dinner, while waiting for The Nanny to come home, The
Second Wife lay down in The Baby’s room, and the two men withdrew to the study.

The Publisher took with him the crocodile-skin briefcase and the bottle of Japanese whisky with which he had arrived.

They lit two Havana cigars, and beneath a mushroom cloud of smoke, by the light of the desk lamp, like an undertaker dealing with the widow of the dear departed, The Publisher opened the briefcase and showed The Writer every article in his sample selection, one after the other. First they saw the proofs, then the various cover designs, for the soon-to-appear
opera omnia
.

The two men talked for a long time and agreed about many things. For example, about the photograph to appear on the boxed set, the choice of which, after a long and judicious scrutiny, boiled down to a dead heat between a black-and-white portrait of The Writer—a few years younger, with a boastful little smile, his head propped on his fist—and a more recent shot, also in black and white, of The Writer sniffing a small white flower, pushing his nose deep into the corolla. After weighing up the pros and cons, the choice of both of them fell on the photograph with the flower.

It would be a unique edition, a collector’s edition, on
high-quality
paper, binding made by hand according to an old process, Morocco leather cover, tanned using only natural products, with gilded head and tail bands. On this point there arose a brief but lively discussion. For the colour of the cover, The Publisher leant towards an austere Prussian blue but The Writer did not agree. He found that solution, that blue coupled with gold, too aristocratic, a kind of blazer with showy buttons that would make him feel alone and melancholy, like an admiral at rest: to him, it was out of the question. Basically he had always been a popular writer, close to the masses, accommodating to his readers, and that was the image he wanted to leave behind him.

So why not red, stronger but still elegant, maybe in a dark shade?
A wine red, Bordeaux or better still Burgundy—yes that was it, a Burgundy red with gold lettering would be perfect.

The Publisher paused. Gravely, he extinguished his cigar and poured a finger of whisky into his tulip-shaped glass.

“But the collections of complete works have always been blue, we’d have to do it outside the usual collections…”

The Writer relit his cigar, which had gone out, solemnly took the bottle and poured two fingers of whisky into his tulip-shaped glass.

“Then do that.”

“Do you know how much this whim of yours over the cover is going to cost me?”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I don’t know and don’t want to know?”

“I wouldn’t do it for anybody else.”

“Liar.”

“You know how many copies we’re going to print?”

“How many?”

“To start, two hundred thousand. That’s just to start.”

“In such a short time? How will you manage?”

“I’ve bought an old printing works in Serbia. They used to print phone books under Tito. They’re just waiting for a phone call from me.”