The Parrots by Filippo Bologna Read Free Book Online Page A

cage you have.”
    He had chosen a big cage, the biggest they had in the shop. The assistant had even gone down to the basement storeroom to fetch it, and had re-emerged with a huge cage, almost an aviary: it had taken the two of them to load it on the roof rack of the car. The Beginner had also bought a perch, an expensive manual on the raising and care of parrots, and two food troughs. Now he had to figure out what to put in the food troughs.
    “Mostly they eat seeds, but there are species that also eat vegetables. If you were just able to tell me more precisely what kind of parrot it is…”
    “Seeds and vegetables. Mine eats everything.”
    He had bought a basic feed, thinking that he could easilysupplement the parrot’s diet with fruit and vegetables (The Girlfriend was a vegetarian, and there was never any lack of greens in their apartment).
    So that was why the same cage that had crossed the centre of Rome on the roof of The Beginner’s car now hung in the middle of the room, abnormal in comparison with the dimensions of the little apartment.
    Cautiously, The Beginner approached the cage. The bird was no longer looking at him with hatred, but had assumed a tough-guy look, like a terrorist ready to blow himself up with everyone in the building rather than reveal where he has planted the bomb.
    The seeds in the food trough and the water in the bowl were untouched. The bird seemed stiff and distant, as if stuffed. The Beginner distinctly heard the creaking of the old lift and recognized The Girlfriend’s energetic steps on the final flight of stairs. The key turned in the lock. The door opened.
    “…”
    “Hi, darling.”
    “What is this? A joke?”
    “No, a present.”
     
    According to an unwritten code, those competing for The Prize were not supposed to put in an appearance at The Academy before The Ceremony, a simple hygienic measure designed to guarantee the transparency of the voting and let the machinery of The Prize proceed calmly and correctly. The Master was perfectly well aware of this. But he was also aware that he wouldn’t get another chance.
    He rang, and as soon as someone came to open up he crossed the threshold of The Academy with his head down, like those who enter an underground train without waiting for the others to get off. The intern who was working there stammered something,but was pushed back by the weight of this old dehorned bull. The Master was at home, he knew the labyrinthine layout of the apartment by heart. The corridors lined with books, the drawing rooms wallpapered with books, the bedrooms covered with books, even the toilet was tiled with books: every hallway, every chapel of this dilapidated apartment which was now the offices of The Academy was filled with books, which had accumulated over the years like files in the basement of a Roman courthouse.
    The ladies who every year dragged themselves up to the top floor didn’t know. The critics didn’t know. The journalists didn’t know. The writers didn’t know. Even The Master, who had lived long enough to know—or to think that he knew—everything there was to know, didn’t know. Know, that is, how many books could still be crammed in.
    It depends on the materials and the construction techniques, but generally the average weight a floor is able to bear is about 200 kilograms per square metre, which is calculated by gradually filling water mattresses or by using hydraulic jacks. What weight were the floors of The Academy able to bear? What was the maximum load per square metre? Hard to say.
    How many plates can a waiter carry without dropping them? How many betrayals can a wife take before she walks out? How many kilometres can a car engine go before it gives up the ghost? How do you recognize the snowflake that will cause the branch to snap?
    And what is the title—and how many pages does it have—of the book that will make the floors of The Academy collapse?
     
    “Are you writing?”
    This is the only question