by M C Dulac
She began to walk along the cliff path to the town. Positano glowed pink in the afternoon sun. She followed a lane through the old town, casting a quick glance at every passage and doorway. She did not see the couple from Rome. How could she explain to them that Antonio had literally disappeared?
And Antonio had given her another warning - to get away from Amalfi. He said he had rescued her from Schumann, and although weak, Schumann might be dangerous.
What should she do with the book? Could she throw it into the sea? Whatever was in it, was enough for the couple from Rome to follow her and for Antonio to disappear. And perhaps for Otto von Schumann to find her.
She drove back to Amalfi, as fast as she could along the treacherous bends. Her hotel room was quiet. She opened the box and took out the book. She lay the book on the table by the window and opened the front cover.
The script was elegant and faded. In the corner of the page was an illustration of a monster, just like the ones pinned to the wall of Antonio’s apartment.
Taking a deep breath, she turned to the next page and read:
THE CONFESSION OF ANTONIO PULISI
The author invoked various saints, angels and mythological figures to acknowledge the truthfulness of the account, seeking clemency and forgiveness from every religious and supernatural force. Eventually his confession began, with the words:
“My name is Antonio Pulisi, and I was born in the Kingdom of Naples in the year Anno Domini 1742.”
Rebecca looked at the frontispiece again. She had seen this writing before - on the notes on Antonio’s drawings. She could have sworn it was Antonio’s handwriting. Then beneath this, she saw identical handwriting written with a modern pen.
“This book is to be read by the innocent I save, the next time he makes his choice. This book is for you, Rebecca. May you forgive me for its secrets.”
She turned the page and read on.
THE CONFESSIONS
OF ANTONIO
NAPLES, ROME, AMALFI & MALTA
1759-1761
chapter eleven
ANTONIO’S STORY
NAPLES, 1759
I was raised with my three brothers and four sisters in a small house in the tenement district of Naples. My father was a labourer on the King’s roads, while my mother washed clothes for the wealthy. I began to work as soon as I was able, accompanying my eldest brother when he repaired churches. It was in those dim and silent aisles that I saw my first paintings, and watched the craftsmen mix the colours that brought the statues to life. It was soon clear that I was more of an artist than a carpenter, and I began to assist the craftsmen whenever I could. When I restored a small fresco with my own brushes, the priest noticed my talent for art and arranged for me to go to Rome for an apprenticeship.
My parents were pleased at this opportunity, so rare for boys of my background. It turned out to be one of the last acts of our kindly parish priest, for he was an elderly man, and fell ill soon afterwards. I was allowed to visit him during his illness. I thanked him for his generosity, and vowed I would do my best. My apprenticeship papers arrived on the day that he died. And so, at the age of sixteen, I left the kingdom of my birth and travelled to the Papal States, to begin my training in Rome.
Unfortunately my new master was an unfair man. There were no great paintings or frescoes to work on. My master had lost his patron and made us paint endless mementoes for the pilgrims. He beat his apprentices and forced us to work day and night. We heard that he gambled, and owed a Cardinal a lot of money, and though said to be married, had many women friends. I received no training and had no chance to see the works of the Old Masters. At least I learned to read and write, for it was my job to keep the records and accounts. I soon noticed that my master spent more than he earned. One morning, the apprentices found the studio abandoned. The master had fled to avoid his debts.
Without papers releasing me from my master’s workshop, I could not leave the Papal States. One of my friends, Marcello, who was also from the south, was sharp-eyed and clever. He said we could make our living as artists on the streets of Rome.
At first we sat around the Spanish Steps, where the wealthy Englishmen stayed, selling our sketches for a few silver coins. Other times, Marcello and I went to the heathen ruins at the edge of the city. I will never forget the first time we saw the Colosseum, where the pagan emperors had put the Christians to death. It was a cursed place with gaping archways and evil tunnels. Trees grew in the ruins and goats grazed on the grass that sprang from the old stones. Marcello said there was a hermit living in the dark passages, although we never saw him.
Nearby was the ancient Forum, also buried beneath weeds and vines. Marcello discovered that these ruins had a great interest for the young noblemen on their Grand Tours of Italy. The English and their tutors were keen to take home illustrations of the city and its monuments and would pay well if we could add their own figures into the drawing. I worked fast, and developed my eye quicker than in any workshop.
The trade was lucrative, but Marcello soon grew restless. He could not draw as quickly as me, and often had to work at night to have enough to sell. Instead, he realised he could earn more by showing the tourists around Rome. I often saw him when he came by the Forum, spinning tales of doubtful truthfulness to his enraptured audience. The new work suited his flamboyant nature.
I was happy. I always sold my work, even if the price was cheap, and I took real joy in those afternoons, sitting on the Spanish Steps or in the countryside with the sun on my back. My work took me wherever I pleased. If there were no tourists in the Forum, I would go to the Vatican. And if the pilgrims did not want my sketches, I would go to the Piazza Navona, and sketch the sculptures of Bernini.
Whenever I could, I wandered into the churches to gaze at the works of the Old Masters. In the church of Santa Maria del Popolo, I had an epiphany. I stood before a painting in which the figures were so lifelike, I felt I could touch their skin and smooth the anguish from their brow. They were not mere figures in oil, but living beings on canvas. I vowed, there and then, that one day, I would create a painting like this.
I asked a nun which genius had created the work, and she told me that he had lived centuries ago and his name was Caravaggio.
The money I earned from my sketches was enough for lodgings with Marcello on the top floor of a barn near the Circus Maximus. I was scared that my master might find us and make us return to the workshop. But months went by and we never heard from him. I lived this way for a year or more. It was only when a fierce winter struck that I began to long for the warmth of Naples. Marcello went away for a month. He had talked some Englishmen into taking a guided tour around Tivoli, although whether he actually knew anything about the old palaces, I cannot say. Then the farmer moved his pigs into the stalls below and the stench made me retch. The darkest days of the year passed, but the February winds were crueler than usual. The pilgrims and tourists stayed away and my hand was so cold I could barely draw. When I sat on the freezing marble of the Spanish Steps, my bones shivered. My income dried up, and my cheeks hollowed. One week I survived on the rations given out by the priests of the Vatican. A vicious frost descended in March and icicles appeared on the eaves of the barn. Even the snorting breath of the pigs was not enough to keep me warm. There was nothing to do, except try to get through this brutal winter.
I did not write to my family. My parents could not read and would have to ask the new priest to read my letters to them - another chore in their busy lives. I doubted they would share my interest in the grandeur of Rome, nor would they have the money to help me home. With so many children to look after, I did not want to trouble them further.
Then, when all seemed lost, the first buds appeared on the trees. Sunshine returned and so did the tourists. My joy in the city was ignited again.
One day in the spring of 1761, I was sitting on the Palatine Hill, sketching the Colosseum. I had no works to display as I had sold them all to the first travelers who had appeared i
n Rome as the weather warmed.
I remember well the picture I was working on. I had moved beyond merely capturing the view. Now I wanted to stir the emotions. To me, the Colosseum was a lumbering, decaying skeleton. In my drawing, a solitary sunbeam shone through the clouds, settling on a small sapling in the centre of the arena. That sapling signified my belief then, that good triumphed over evil and that light would vanquish darkness.
As I sketched, I sensed someone beside me. Turning, I saw a well-dressed traveler. My eyes passed over his shiny boots, woolen breaches, velvet coat, fine cravat, lace cuffs and suede hat. We had all learned to notice the quality of clothing and leather, and assess the wealthiness of our customers. Marcello said it was quite reasonable to adjust our prices accordingly.
The gentleman before me was very wealthy. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with pale skin. He was young, although he carried himself with great confidence. His eyes seemed older than his smooth face.
I was aware my coat was frayed, and my boots needed mending. My thin face was stained with dirt, for I had forgotten to rinse it under the water pump that morning, and my hair was matted under my hat. My customers were always scrubbed and well-fed, and took their fine clothes for granted. Only a week before, I had seen one Englishman throw his brocade coat in a fountain, and then plunge in himself, soaking his lace shirt and silk cravat, before drunkenly staggering away with his friends. Eagle-eyed women retrieved the coat, while children fished around in the fountain for anything that might have fallen out of his pockets.
It was true that men were not created equal. But as the priest in Naples said, what sort of world would it be if we could all be kings?
Usually young travelers had a tutor - a huffing, grumpy older man who stopped their young masters spending too much. But my customer that day was all by himself. I tipped my hat.
“I am afraid, sir, that my illustration is not finished. But if you wait, I can finish it for you.”
“You have a fine eye,” said the traveler, gazing from my drawing to the Colosseum, “And you have captured the mood. The old arena is a melancholy sight.”
Perhaps my traveler only wanted to talk. We artists were used to that. The stranger spoke Italian well, although I guessed he was German. I knew a few words of German now and some English, gleaned from the tourists. Usually however, talk led to no sales.
“Are you from Rome?” he asked.
“Naples, sir.”
“Did you come here to be an artist?”
“I did, sir. But my master’s workshop closed down,” I usually did not say this, but the stranger seemed kindly and sympathetic.
His eyes strayed to my cuffs. I was wearing my best shirt, but it was grubby and worn. Self-consciously, I tucked my cuffs under the sleeves of my coat.
“I see you can read and write.”
In the corner of the drawing, I had made notes and measurements.
“I can, sir. I did all my master’s accounts.”
The stranger paused. He fell into silence for a while, as the birds sang in the trees above the ancient Forum.
“I am new to Rome,” he said, “I plan to stay for a few months. I have come without my servants. Do you know the city well?”
“Yes, sir. I sketch all over the city. If you need a guide, I am happy to show you. And I can get you the best price for everything. You should be careful, sir. It is shameful to say, but there are many unscrupulous souls in the Holy City.”
Normally, if a traveler needed a guide, I would introduce him to Marcello. But this traveler seemed well-tempered and kind, and I could imagine how Marcello would run through his money.
“I do not need a guide,” the stranger said slowly, “I am a scientist, and I require a servant to fetch powders and chemicals. I have heard there are places in Rome that stock such things, but I need someone who can go on my behalf, and negotiate for me.”
“I am good at business, sir, and I know the Romans.”
“I do not want to drag you away from your art.”
“I am not just an artist, sir,” after last winter, the crowded loft, the days spent selling our wares on the street and the stench of the pigs, a steady income was attractive.
“Do you know where to get pigments and powders?”
“Yes, sir. I oversaw my master’s supplies and visited the storerooms personally.”
I watched the stranger closely, hoping he would not change his mind.
“If you need a servant in Rome, sir, I would be most happy to serve you,” I added.
The sun had reached around the Colosseum, falling where the stranger stood. He stepped into the shade. He was very pale. I noticed his hands were covered by calf-skin gloves.
“I will need a servant at least until next spring. Secrecy is of the utmost importance. I trust you can keep secrets.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I have noticed you are one of the few genuine artists here today,” he gazed at the others working in the ruins. He was right. There were some bad artists who pushed their work onto the tourists, and some who put their signatures on others’ drawings. Then there were those who left their paper untouched, as they told tales to the incredulous tourists, all in return for payment.
“They are not my friends, sir,” I said, although I did know several of them.
“No. You have talent. And if you have talent, you will be good at many things. Come to my apartments tomorrow. I am staying off the Corso.”
“Certainly, sir!” my heart leapt at the gold I would earn.
“Here,” he handed me a coin.
I had not done anything, so I wondered if he wanted the drawing.
He shook his head, “That is for your discretion. Come tomorrow at nine o’clock.” He gave me directions to his apartments. I knew the area. It was near the Piazza del Popolo.
“Certainly, sir. My name is Antonio, sir. And pray, may I ask the name of my new master?”
“My name is Albert Price.”
Albert Price strode away into the ruins. My heart was excited then, for I did not realise what events had been set in motion.
* * * * *
Price was staying at the end of the Corso, in an area favoured by German travelers. I knew that many tourists were disappointed with Rome after entering the city through the monumental gates and crossing the Piazza del Popolo. Many feared, rightly, that the narrow streets off the Corso were full of danger, for murders and robberies were not uncommon. Even though I was not a Roman, I passed easily among the local people, and knew where and whom to avoid. I was glad to protect my new master, who like the other tourists, seemed oblivious to the danger created by his wealth.
I stood on the street before Price’s apartment building. A gentleman opened the large door. I slipped past him. I walked up the wide stone staircase towards the second floor.
A servant stopped me in the hall and I explained I had come to see Albert Price. The servant opened a door and told me to wait.
I was in a room as big as any gallery. The walls were brightly coloured and the gilt trimmed ceiling was covered with landscape paintings. Tall windows looked onto the lane outside. I gazed at the shiny parquetry and the sparkling glass chandelier. I had never been in such a grand apartment. There were even more rooms beyond the doorway through which the servant had disappeared.
The servant returned, and nodded for me to go on.
I found Price in the furthest room. He sat at a desk, sleeves rolled up, writing with a feather pen. I cast a quick glance over the fine furnishings - polished wood, brocade chairs, gleaming mirrors. I guessed the furniture came with the apartment. Price’s packing crates lay stacked around the room. One crate had been opened and I glimpsed shiny pots and glass bottles.
“Good, you are here, Antonio. I need these items from the apothecary on the corner, as soon as possible,” Price handed me a note.
I did not recognise any of the words he had written.
“You will need this,” he swung a pouch onto the table. From th
e tinkling sound, I presumed there were coins inside.
“I shall do so straightaway, master,” I bowed and set off on my first errand.
I ran down the stairs, into the street and along the bustling Corso. The shop was on a corner. The apothecary read the note, placed several glass bottles on the bench and filled them with coloured salts. He gave me the bottles one by one, confirming the contents. I realised the words on the note were the names of different powders. I vowed I would learn all these new words. I knew little of science, but I was a quick learner, and was determined to do everything I could to impress my new master.
When I tipped the pouch onto the counter, I was amazed to see so many gold coins. The apothecary counted the coins, then gave me back four. This amount of money did not seem to surprise him. He must have been wealthy himself, for he wore a powdered wig and a fine coat. He dismissed me with a nod and returned to his shelves of gleaming glass bottles.
As I walked through the teeming, stinking streets, the gold coins had an alluring music. It would be so easy to slip a coin in my pocket and spend it in a tavern that night - on real wine and real meat. Price was new to Rome. He did not know the cost of the powders, or that he had given me too much money. My first master was so cruel and dishonest, many of us had learned to survive any way we could. Overcharging a client or priest was better than going hungry. And my time on the street had lowered my morals further. I did not always tell the truth, or give the best advice. Should I keep a coin? I knew what Marcello would tell me to do.
Then I saw a church before me. The words of our priest in Naples thundered through my ears. Thou shalt not steal. At once I felt guilty that such thoughts had entered my heart. I resisted the song of the coins and ran up the stairs to Price’s apartments.
Price looked closely at the bottles and took the pouch. I saw him count the coins and smile. Maybe he did know the cost of the powders and was testing me.
