The Whispering Land

"This señor," he said, gripping my shoulder tightly, as if fearful that I might run away, "this señor wants bichos, live bichos, eh? Now, the other day when I passed your house, I saw that you possessed a parrot, a very common and rather ugly parrot of a kind that I have no doubt the señor will despise. Nevertheless, I am' bound to show it to him, worthless though it is."

The woman bristled.

"It is a beautiful parrot," she said shrilly and indignantly, "a very beautiful parrot, and one, moreover, of a kind that is extremely rare. It comes from high up in the mountains."

"Nonsense," said Helmuth firmly, "I have seen many like it in the market in Jujuy, and they were so common they were practically having to give them away. This one is undoubtedly one of those."

"The señor is mistaken," said the woman, "this is a most unusual bird of great beauty and tameness."

"I do not think it is beautiful," said Helmuth, and added loftily, "and as for its tameness, it is a matter of indifference to the señor whether it be tame or as wild as a puma."

I felt it was about time I entered the fray.

"Er… Helmuth," I said tentatively.

"Yes?" he said, turning to me and regarding me with his blue eyes flashing with the light of battle.

"I don't want to interfere, but wouldn't it be a good idea if I saw the bird first, before we start bargaining? I mean, it might be something very common, or something quite rare."

"Yes," said Helmuth, struck by the novelty of this idea, "yes, let us see the bird."

He turned and glared at the woman.

"Where is this wretched bird of yours?" he inquired.

The woman pointed silently over my left shoulder, and turning round I found that the parrot had been perching among the green leaves of the pomegranate tree some three feet away, an interested spectator of our bargaining. As soon as I saw it I knew that I must have it, for it was a rarity, a red-fronted Tucuman Amazon,* a bird which was, to say the least of it, unusual in European collections. He was small for an Amazon parrot, and his plumage was a rich grass-green with more than a tinge of yellow in it here and there; he had bare white rings round his dark eyes, and the whole of his forehead was a rich scarlet. Where the feathering ended on each foot he appeared to be wearing orange garters. I gazed at him longingly. Then, trying to wipe the acquisitive* look off my face I turned to Helmuth and shrugged with elaborate unconcern, which I am sure did not deceive the parrot's owner for a moment.

"It's a rarity," I said, trying to infuse dislike and loathing for the parrot into my voice, "I must have it."

"You see?" said Helmuth, returning to the attack, "the señor says it is a very common bird, and he already has six of them down, in Buenos Aires."

The woman regarded us both with deep suspicion. I tried to look like a man who possessed six Tucuman Amazons, and who really did not care to acquire any more. The woman wavered, and then played her trump card.*

"But this one talks" she said triumphantly.

"The señor does not care if they talk or not," Helmuth countered quickly. We had by now all moved towards the bird, and were gathered in a circle round the branch on which it sat, while it gazed down at us expressionlessly.

"Blanco…, Blanco," cooed the woman, "como te va, Blanco?"*

"We will give you thirty pesos for it," said Helmuth.

"Two hundred," said the woman, "for a parrot that talks two hundred is cheap."

"Nonsense," said Helmuth, "anyway, how do we know it talks? It hasn't said anything."

"Blanco, Blanco," cooed the woman in a frenzy, "speak to Mama… speak Blanco."

Blanco eyed us all in a considering way.

"Fifty pesos, and that's a lot of money for a bird that won't talk," said Helmuth.

"Madre de Dios,* but he talks all day," said the woman, almost in tears, "wonderful things he says… he is the best parrot I have ever heard."

"Fifty pesos, take it or leave it," said Helmuth flatly.

"Blanco, Blanco, speak," wailed the woman, "say something for the señores… please."

The parrot shuffled his green feathering with a silken sound, put his head on one side and spoke.

"Hijo de puta"* he said, clearly and slowly.

The woman stood as though transfixed, her mouth open, unable to believe in the perfidy of her pet. Helmuth uttered a great sigh as of someone who knows the battle is won. Slowly, and with a look of utter malignancy, he turned to the unfortunate woman.

"So!" he hissed, like the villain in a melodrama. "So! This is your idea of a talking parrot, eh?"

"But, señor…" began the woman faintly.

"Enough!" said Helmuth, cutting her short. "We have heard enough. A stranger enters your gates, in order to help you by paying you money (which you need) for a worthless bird. And what do you do? You try and cheat him by telling him your bird talks, and thus get him to pay more."

"But it does talk" protested the woman faintly.