Veritas (Atto Melani)

by Monaldi, Rita

  “Good sir, I am here to apologise, for in my departure I did not acquire a licence from your good self.”

  “Good sir, where no offence was intended, no apology is needed.”

  “Truly, good sir, I am greatly obliged for the honour.”

  And so on. Ollendorf made us repeat a series of formulas that were as elegant as they were of dubious utility to a chimney-sweep and his family.

  20 of the clock: eating houses close their doors.

  The orchestra had struck up the introduction to Alessio’s aria. The main part was played on the lute by Francesco Conti, a good friend of Camilla de’ Rossi, who wove his arpeggios against the background of a dark melancholy murmuring of strings.

  We were inside the Hofburg, in the Most August Caesarean chapel, at the rehearsal of Sant’ Alessio. The notes had the power to relax my sweet wife and to calm her fears after the unpleasant encounter at the Savoy Palace.

  With just a few eloquent gestures of her forearm the Chormaisterin contained the threatening mass of the violas, softened the impassioned violins and opened the way to the timid lute. Then Alessio intoned the wise verses with which he tried to console his former betrothed, whom he had abandoned many years before, and who now, having found him again, still did not recognise him.

  Duol sofferto per amore

  Perde il nome di dolor

  Cangia in rose le sue spine

  Più non ha tante ruine,

  Più non ha tanto dolor . . .8

  While the touching melody softened our hearts and minds, I thought back over the events of the day. Ever since Atto Melani had arrived in the city, even before I had met him or even merely learned of his presence, my calm and satisfying Viennese life had become chaos: first of all, the adventure among the lions of the Place with No Name and its absurd Flying Ship, then the arrival of the ambiguous Turkish embassy, which clearly harboured dark designs (starting from Ciezeber’s awful plan, to chop some poor wretch’s head off). Then the arrival of Atto himself, who wanted to involve me in an international espionage plot against Eugene of Savoy (the Serene Prince who was so generously employing my wife Cloridia!). And should I call him Eugene of Savoy or Dog Nose? Had Atto let that nickname slip out accidentally or on purpose?

  After eleven years I had just re-encountered Abbot Melani and I was already quietly cursing him.

  Duol sofferto per amore

  Perde il nome di dolor . . .

  Finally there had been the discovery that Ciezeber possessed disturbing magic powers, which he employed in obscure and bloody rituals. As if that were not enough, the dervish was engaged in shady business with some individual who was supposed to bring him somebody’s head and who seemed to be menacing Cloridia. Even in my family something new and strange had occurred: my wife, who had never said a word about her past and about the Turkish mother who had brought her into the world, had suddenly opened up and begun to talk about these matters. To the point of proffering extremely useful information on dervishes and their powers.

  Meanwhile the voice of Landina, Conti’s soprano wife, who was singing the role of Alessio’s fiancée, responded to her betrothed without knowing it was he:

  Se dar voglio all’Oblio

  La memoria di lui, cresce l’affetto

  E se cerco bandir dal cor l’oggetto

  Di rivederlo più cresce il desìo.9

  What would have happened, I wondered, if in the wood of the Place with No Name Ciezeber had discovered that Cloridia and I were trailing him? Given his powers, I could only shudder and imagine some tragic and gory finale. And if I did not lose my head through some sorcery of the dervish’s, I was likely to end up being tried and beheaded for plotting against Eugene, supreme commander of the imperial army – and, what was worse, acting in league with a French secret agent, even if he was blind and decrepit. On calmer reflection, there was no guarantee that the letter in which Eugene sold himself to the French would have the effect Atto hoped for: had not Ilsung and Ungnad, the two treacherous counsellors of Maximilian II, remained coolly in their posts even after the Emperor had discovered their imposture? All things considered, the encounter with Mustafa, the old lion of the Place with No Name, had been just a mild foretaste of the mortal dangers I would encounter in the days to come.

  “Master Chimney-sweep, you look pale and thoughtful today.”

  “Who’s there?” I turned round with a jerk, my heart in my mouth.

  The voice that had made me start so violently was that of Gaetano Orsini, Camilla’s jovial castrato friend, who sang the role of Alessio.

  The orchestra had paused for a break, Orsini had come over to exchange a few words and I, absorbed in my dark apprehensions, had noticed nothing.

  “Oh, it’s you,” I sighed in relief.

  “I should have said: pale, thoughtful and very nervous,” he corrected himself, patting me on the back.

  “Forgive me, it’s been an awful day.”

  “Yes, for everyone. Today we had to rehearse for hours in the afternoon as well; we’re all very tired. But you just have to grit your teeth, or on the day of the performance we’ll make fools of ourselves in front of the Nuncio. And the Emperor will give us all a hiding, hee hee.”

  “Including poor Camilla,” I added, struggling to match Orsini’s good humour.

  “Oh, not her, of course. No, definitely not,” he added with a curious little laugh.

  “Oh no? Special clemency for the Chormaisterin of Porta Coeli?”

  “Don’t you know? Our friend is a very close confidante of His Caesarean Majesty,” he said, lowering his voice.

  I fell silent for an instant, exchanging a bewildered glance with Cloridia.

  “So far Camilla has composed an oratorio per year for the Emperor,” Orsini went on. “That makes a total of four oratorios, and she has never wanted to be paid. It’s a real mystery why, all the more so since His Caesarean Majesty spares no expense when it’s a matter of the court chapel. He’s kept on all 76 of his father’s players and has even hired several others, especially violinists, so that there are now actually 107 of us, something unheard of in Europe. Not to mention the opera theatre that was inaugurated three years ago. After the Ottoman siege 28 years ago, Vienna never really had one worthy of the name.”

  Under Joseph I, Orsini went on, Vienna had become the capital of Italian opera, both serious and light, and also of harlequinades, pantomimes, ballets, shadow puppetry, marionettes, tightrope-walkers et cetera et cetera. Opera, in particular, was of a higher quality than anywhere else in Europe: fourteen or more performances a year, all featuring the most famous names among singers, composers and instrumentalists.

  “All strictly Italian,” Orsini said with pride.

  This gave some idea of the artistic heights achieved thanks to the magnanimity and exquisite taste of His Caesarean Majesty. He himself was as skilled in the musical arts as he was in those of war, and during his leisure hours, when there was no urgent state business, he would sit down at the harpsichord or pick up the flute or try his hand at graceful compositions. These included a fine Regina Coeli for solo soprano, violin and organ and a number of virtuoso operatic arias in the style of the Italian Alessandro Scarlatti. The personal talent of our young and beloved Caesar, together with the great number and high quality of his performers, encouraged every kind of experiment, so that the instruments were often used in new and surprising ways. In this way the Josephine Chapel, as the chapel of the Caesarean court had been renamed in honour of the Emperor, was famous for its innovations, unparalleled elsewhere in Europe.

  “But despite all that, our mysterious Chormaisterin has never wanted a florin from the Emperor. Even before entering the convent she always found a way to make a decorous and honourable living.”

  “Oh yes, it’s true,” Cloridia and I both nodded, pretending to know what Orsini was referring to.

  “She travelled through all the small towns of Lower Austria, healing hundreds of invalids, in accordance with the dictates of the Rhinelan
d abbess, St Hildegard. Even the priests who had been called to administer extreme unction would consult her. They would have her hurry to the bedside of a dying invalid, she would indicate the most suitable treatment – always based on spelt, I believe – and in less than two days there would be a miracle: the dying man would eat, walk and leave the house on his own two feet.”

  “True, she achieved excellent results with our son too,” I agreed.

  “Yes, but here in Vienna Camilla only treats friends. The university comes down hard on anyone who practises the art without a degree in medicine.”

  “I know all about that,” confirmed my wife, who could not practise the profession of midwifery except secretly.

  “Anyway, now everything has turned out nicely for our Chormaisterin,” said Orsini. “When the Emperor asked her to settle permanently in the capital, rather than accept payment she told him that she no longer felt able to compose and asked permission to enter a convent. His Majesty placed her in the Porta Coeli, which is the richest and most liberal of all the monasteries in this city.”

  “Liberal?” said Cloridia in surprise. “But isn’t it an enclosed order?”

  “In theory, certainly,” laughed Orsini. “However, they can receive any female visitors they want and in their cells they play at Hombre, by permission of the abbess, which is very easy to obtain. They’re always guzzling those little delicacies that the kitchens turn out, especially those sugar figures, which they keep on hand to nibble at whenever they feel peckish.”

  “Now that I think about it,” I said, “I’ve noticed that the grating is not much of an obstacle: you can easily put your head through it, and anybody who’s just a little thinner than average could squeeze right through.”

  “I’ve seen visitors with my own eyes go up to the grating and kiss the nuns’ hands, and they didn’t pull back – on the contrary, they stretched their hands out through the bars without any hesitation!” added the young castrato.

  “I’m glad for the Chormaisterin that life at Porta Coeli isn’t too hard,” remarked Cloridia.

  “But that’s certainly not why the Emperor put her there: it’s so that Camilla can console the little Pálffy . . .” he concluded in a cheerfully allusive tone. Then he pulled an apple from his pocket and began to munch it.

  The little Countess Pálffy! That morning, thanks to Atto, I had learned that she was the Emperor’s lover and that she lived in Porta Coeli Street as well, very close to the convent. The very person that Abbot Melani wanted to use to deliver to the Emperor the letter that revealed Prince Eugene’s treachery. I pricked up my ears and smiled with complicity, to induce the musician to continue.

  “. . . and so His Caesarean Majesty’s carriage turns up at the oddest hours in Porta Coeli Street, collects someone and takes that person to the Hofburg,” trilled Orsini insouciantly, as if he were saying things everyone knew. “The people think that it’s Eugene of Savoy inside, summoned by Joseph to discuss urgent matters of war. Actually it’s his confidante Camilla, if the Emperor has something to confide. Or, if he feels like doing something other than talk, it’ll be Marianna Pálffy inside, hee hee.”

  I was joining in Orsini’s umpteenth little burst of laughter, but Cloridia stopped me at once by squeezing my arm: Camilla was approaching. Although her face was tired and full of apprehension, she greeted us with her usual affability.

  “I see that you’ve as good an appetite as ever, even at this hour of day,” she said smiling at Orsini, who held his half-eaten apple in his hand.

  “The fruit of the tree of good and evil,” Orsini joked back. “I’ve finally decided to taste it.”

  “Don’t say that,” answered Camilla, suddenly serious.

  “It was just a joke: I’ve already tasted it many times,” said Orsini, still jocularly.

  “Cavalier Orsini, I told you not to use those words,” Camilla retorted, with unexpected harshness.

  Orsini and I looked at each other in embarrassment.

  “They are expressions from the Scriptures,” added Camilla, perhaps realising that she had gone a little too far. “I beg you not to use them inappropriately.”

  “I didn’t foresee that I might offend you,” Orsini justified himself.

  “You don’t offend me, but the Scriptures. And what is needed is prudence, not foresight. The latter is the divine gift of the wise . . . But please excuse me, we must continue our work,” she said in evident embarrassment, making her way with bowed head to the front of the orchestra, a clear sign that the interval was over.

  When we got back to the convent, exhausted after a day full of novelties and surprises, we went straight to bed. Cloridia fell asleep in my arms at once; but although thoroughly worn out, I just could not close my eyes.

  A thousand questions swirled around my mind, each linked to the next like the beads of a necklace made of mysteries. Why had Camilla de’ Rossi not told us she was friends with the Emperor? Out of discretion, perhaps. But why did she refuse payment for her compositions, and choose instead to withdraw into a convent?

  And also: Camilla had seemed anguished, but what was the reason? I could understand that she did not wish to waste a whole half-hour with us, as she usually did. But why had she not addressed a single word to us? And there were plenty of things we could have said to one another! After all, just the evening before, Atto Melani had taken up lodgings in the convent.

  Camilla, as Atto himself had confirmed, had known for some time that the Abbot was coming to Vienna, but at his request she had kept the secret. That was why she had told us earlier, with a sibylline smile, that in the days to come, “happy things” were in store for us. But what did Camilla know of the motives that had brought Atto to the Caesarean city? The Abbot had not said a single word about this. Did the Chormaisterin find nothing strange in the visit of the old castrato, from the enemy country of France, no less? Did she not know that Melani was a spy by profession?

  No, no, she probably did not know, I told myself. Atto must have concocted some credible cock-and-bull story. Probably he had told her that he wanted to see me again at all costs before he died. Maybe he had used the theatrical tones that he could adopt so effectively to his own advantage . . . And Camilla had fallen for it.

  But the questions doubled and multiplied, as in a game of mirrors. Why did Atto not use Camilla to deliver Eugene’s letter to the Emperor? Did he not know that the Chormaisterin was a friend of Joseph’s? No, probably not. Otherwise he would not have set off on the trail of Marianna Pálffy, without even referring to Camilla. I myself, after all, had learned of the friendship between Joseph and the Chormaisterin only by chance, thanks to Gaetano Orsini’s chattering.

  What should I do? Pass on that valuable information to Atto, or keep it under my hat? It would be very easy for Camilla to get Prince Eugene’s letter to the Emperor. But what would happen if Atto, as I suspected, was acting in league with the Turks? Would I not then be exposing His Caesarean Majesty to some dangerous plot? I could even be accused of being an accomplice!

  No, it was better to say nothing to Atto. Indeed, I should keep a close watch on him (which was not as difficult as it would have been in the past, since he was now an old man). But above all, I should try to conceal from him the fact that the means of contact with the Emperor, which he was seeking so desperately, was just round the corner – indeed, inside the very convent where he was sleeping.

  If only Atto knew how easy it was to communicate with the Emperor! From the conversations of my brother chimney-sweeps, my clients and the customers of inns and coffee houses, I knew that, for all the splendour of the young Emperor’s deeds and despite my own profound devotion, he had within himself old griefs and deep wounds, and these had been scarred over by a sort of acerbic ingenuousness. It was this that could serve Abbot Melani as a breach: if he could but obtain an audience with the Emperor by means of Camilla, he would definitely succeed in making himself heard, and probably in obtaining what he hoped for. Which would be all to the good i
f Atto’s intentions really were directed towards peace, as he claimed. But it would be all to the bad if he were in fact acting in league with the Turks for illicit ends.

  Joseph the Victorious was born with the lively spirit, the majesty and the generosity of a great monarch. He was capable of grand gestures, he could persuade the irresolute and move the indifferent. He was impatient, impetuous, rapid in his decisions, ardent and spontaneous. But he would listen to the most insignificant complaints, make promises that he could not possibly keep and he was at times incapable of saying no.

  This weakness, so well-hidden and insidious, was due to a cruel trick of destiny: he had been born to a man who was his exact opposite.

  His father Leopold had been pious, timid and bigoted; Joseph the Victorious was audacious, self-confident and cordial. Leopold had been prudent, reserved, phlegmatic, indecisive, constant and moderate; Joseph exuded energy from every pore. At the age of just twenty-four he had gone into battle against the French, commanding the army himself, and had conquered the famous fortress of Landau. He had been known ever since as Joseph the Victorious. His father Leopold, by contrast, when the Turks approached Vienna in 1683, had at once taken to his heels.

  The young Joseph, the firstborn and thus destined for the throne, had clearly felt a vocation for ruling from the very beginning. He loved his people, and was loved by them in return. But he also expected obedience from his subjects, and so had chosen as his Latin motto: Timore et amore, “with fear and love”, thus declaring that in his rule he would use two of the most powerful passions.

  His father, on the other hand, had become emperor by chance: as a young man he had been groomed for the priesthood, because the throne was reserved for his elder brother, who then died of a disease. Reigning had been nought but a burdensome duty for him, to be carried out with patient slowness. It was no accident that his motto had been Consilio et industria: “With commitment and wisdom”. He had been brought up by the powerful Jesuits, who had mastered his impressionable soul. Instead of making religion his guide, Leopold had made blinkers of it. Being of a timorous character, his very faith was faltering, and he was obsessed by superstitions and omens; he was afraid of magic and the evil eye. Convinced that he was cultivating the virtue of patience, he let himself be maltreated even by the beggars he received at court.