The Parrots by Filippo Bologna Page B

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