The Parrots by Filippo Bologna Page A

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)

     
    Y OU 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 cleaningits 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