The Whispering Land

"Yes, but what does it say?" hissed Helmuth. He paused, drew himself up to his full height, took a deep breath and roared:

"It tells this good-natured, kindly señor that he is the son of a whore."

The woman looked down at the ground and twiddled her bare toes in the dust. She was beaten and she knew it.

"Now that the señor knows what disgusting things you have taught this bird I should not think he will want it," continued Helmuth. "I should think that now he will not even want to offer you fifty pesos for a bird that has insulted not only him, but his mother."

The woman gave me a quick glance, and returned to the contemplation of her toes. Helmuth turned to me, "We have got her," he said in a pleading tone of voice, "all you have to do is to try to look insulted."

"But I am insulted," I said, trying to look offended and suppress the desire to giggle. "Never, in fact, in a long career of being insulted, have I been so insulted."

"You're doing fine," said Helmuth, holding out both hands as if begging me to relent. "Now give in a bit."

I tried to look stern but forgiving, like one of the less humorous saints one sees in ikons.

"All right," I said reluctantly, "but only this once. Fifty, you said?"*

"Yes," said Helmuth, and as I pulled out my wallet he turned again to the woman. "The señor, because he is the very soul of kindness, has forgiven you the insult. He will pay you the fifty pesos that you demanded, in your greed."

The woman beamed. I paid over the grubby notes, and then approached the parrot. He gazed at me musingly. I held out my finger, and he gravely climbed on to it, and then made his way up my arm to my shoulder. Here he paused, gave me a knowing look, and said quite clearly and loudly:

"Como te va, como te va, que tal?"* and then giggled wickedly.

"Come on," said Helmuth, revitalised by his session of bargaining. "Let's go and see what else we can find."

We bowed to the woman, who bowed to us. Then, as we closed the bamboo gate behind us and were getting into the car, Blanco turned on my shoulder and fired his parting shot.

"Estupido" he called to his late owner, "muy estupido"*

"That parrot," said Helmuth, hastily starting the car, "is a devil."

I was inclined to agree with him.

Our tour of the village was not entirely unproductive. By careful questioning and cross-questioning nearly everyone we met we managed to run to earth* five yellow-fronted Amazon parrots, an armadillo and two grey-necked guans.* These latter are one of the game-birds, known locally as charatas, which is an onomatopoeic* name resembling their cry. They look, at first glance; rather like a slim and somewhat drab hen pheasant of some species. Their basic colouring is a curious brown (the pale colour a stale bar of chocolate goes*) fading to grey on the neck. But, see them in the sun and you discover that what you thought was a mat brown is really slightly iridescent with a golden sheen. Under the chin they have two drooping red wattles, and the feathers on their heads, when they get excited, stand up in a kind of crest that looks like a lengthy crew-cut. They were both young birds, having been taken from the nest when a few days old and hand-reared, so they were ridiculously tame. The Amazon parrots were also tame, but none of them had the knowingness or the vocabulary of Blanco. All they could do was to mutter "Lorito"* at intervals, and whistle shrilly. Nevertheless, I felt for one morning's work we were not doing too badly, and so I carried my purchases back in triumph to the house, where Joan Lett had kindly allowed me to use their empty garage as a sort of storehouse for my creatures.