The Whispering Land

'Enter, señores, enter,' she called, beckoning us into the garden.

We went in, and, while Luna crouched down and conducted a muttered conversation with the row of fascinated children, Helmuth, exuding good-will and personality,* beamed at the woman.

'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.

'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.

As I had no cages ready for the reception of my brood, I had to let them all loose in the garage and hope for the best. To my surprise this arrangement worked very well. The parrots all found themselves convenient perches, just out of pecking range of each other, and, though it had obviously been agreed that Blanco was the boss, there was no unmannerly squabbling. The guans also found themselves perches, but these they only used to sleep on, preferring to spend their days stalking about the floor of the garage, occasionally throwing back their heads and letting forth their ear-splitting cry. The armadillo, immediately on being released, fled behind a large box, and spent all day there meditating, only tip-toeing out at night to eat his food, casting many surreptitious and fearful glances at the sleeping birds. By the following day the news had spread through the village that there had arrived a mad gringo* who was willing to pay good money for live animals, and the first trickle of specimens started. The first arrival was an Indian carrying, on the end of a length of string, a coral snake* striped in yellow, black and scarlet, like a particularly revolting Old School tie.* Unfortunately, in his enthusiasm, the Indian had tied the string too tightly about the reptile's neck, and so it was very