Veritas (Atto Melani)

by Monaldi, Rita

  This immoral behavour was so deeply rooted that some religious services had been given abusive nicknames: the 10.30 mass in the church of the Capuchins was referred to openly as the “whores’ mass”, and the one at 11 o’clock in St Stephen’s as the “loafers’ mass”.

  But the harlots and their clients were not the only plagues of the cathedral: this morning as ever (and this was Sunday in albis!) the church was crowded with all manner of people and animals and goods: bumpkins and crones stood around with piglets under their arms, or even tubs full of squawking chickens, geese and ducks; lazy noblemen had themselves carried in sedan chairs right up to the altar, and their equally idle servants then parked the chairs inside the church, too lazy to go and wait outside.

  In short, the high mass was like a gigantic fairground: a constant profane bustle, with a sottofondo of endless babbling.

  His Caesarean Majesty, by means of an imperial licence, had appointed commissioners whose job it was to walk around the church and threaten to fine or arrest anyone disturbing the services with idle chatter or inappropriate behaviour. The revenue from the fines was distributed among the poor. However, these sanctions made no difference. As the circulars of the episcopal consistory complained, in St Stephen’s the people persisted in gathering in groups, gossiping, swearing, blaspheming, walking to and fro, knocking back liquors and engaging in blatant mercenary activities, mocking, vilifying and even threatening those who warned them to respect the sacred temple.

  At the end of the mass we waited outside again, observing the congregation as they left the church, mingling with the crowd of Sunday strollers. “Domenico,” said Atto, “even if it’s cold I want to go for a short walk . . .”

  “Wait, Uncle.”

  Atto Melani’s nephew was standing on tiptoes, as alert as a bloodhound. He was observing a group of three young women, and in particular a very tall one with fiery red hair, bundled up under a small hat that was too flimsy for the weather.

  “It’s her, Uncle, I really think it’s her. She’s going back home.”

  “Let’s follow her, damn it. Boy, come with me,” said Melani, addressing me.

  The three young women were heading towards Carinthia Street, and were walking against the flow, pushing their way through the crowd of Sunday strollers all converging on the centre of the city. We followed the three girls at a reasonable distance, not wishing to give the impression that this bizarre trio (consisting of a blind old man, a midget and only one person of marriageable age, Domenico) was trying to force its attentions on three pretty young maidens.

  “As soon as they slow down, go and introduce yourself,” Atto ordered Domenico, “and give her the letter.”

  “Which letter?” I said with a start, thinking of the letter in which Eugene had offered to betray the Emperor to the French.

  “Just a note with a humble request from two Italian cavaliers seeking the honour to be received by the Countess, and offering her our services.”

  A propitious occasion presented itself just a few moments later. The three young women paused to exchange a few words with an elderly nun, who then continued on her way. The three girls lingered on the spot for a few moments. Domenico walked up to them and with a graceful bow introduced himself. He was a handsome young man, fresh-faced and well-mannered, with a gentle, pleasing voice. He must have chosen the right words, because we saw Pálffy’s face, which had a slight tinge of sadness, brighten at the compliment he offered. I wondered what hidden worry she had. The little group exchanged a few amiable words. Domenico was about to put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, perhaps his fingers were already touching Atto’s note.

  But a familiar noise had been growing louder by the instant. A splendid two-horse carriage, clanking and rattling, was heading straight towards the trio of young women and Domenico. The postillion made a gesture of salutation to the Countess, who responded immediately, taking her eyes off Atto’s nephew. The carriage had now pulled up, the doors opened and the three women prepared to climb in. I described to Atto what was happening.

  “The note, has he given her the note?” asked Abbot Melani, frothing and thrusting his face forward like a tethered steed.

  At that precise moment two footmen climbed down from the carriage and helped the Emperor’s lover to climb in. As she stepped onto the footboard, Domenico handed her the note. She took it in her hand, but with a very courteous gesture gave it straight back to him without opening it. In the meantime, still holding Atto by the arm, I approached them. An instant before she disappeared inside the vehicle, I saw Pálffy’s face tense up as she gave way to a discreet and subdued fit of weeping. The carriage moved off, Domenico gave a timid wave, but no response came from within.

  “Curse it,” said Atto, gnashing his teeth when his nephew told him the outcome of the encounter. “These twenty-year-old lovers are always ready to burst into tears and never understand a thing. We won’t find another occasion like this so easily.”

  13 of the clock: luncheon hour for noblemen. The middle classes enter the coffee houses, and performances begin in the theatres.

  As he took his leave, Abbot Melani bade me meet him again at lunchtime: we would eat again in some public place. I explained that it would be better to meet before one o’clock, because in Vienna only noblemen eat after one, and prices go up steeply.

  “Good to know,” he answered. “So let’s not meet before one o’clock. I like to share my table only with people of my own rank.”

  When the time came I took him and Domenico to an eating house near the Hofburg. We arrived just in time: it had started snowing again.

  I asked at once if we could be seated at one of the more secluded tables. The cantiniere came up and rattled off the rich list of dishes of the day, which included Styrian, Polish, Hungarian, Czech and Moravian specialities, and for just a few extra pence some exotic ones: pomarances, oysters, almonds, chestnuts, pistachios, rice, muscatel grapes, wine from Spain, Dutch cheese, Cremona mortadella, Venetian sugared almonds and Indian spices.

  We gave our orders and we were soon served a tender veal fillet, a coal-baked pink trout and succulent fritters with cream. As always, the quantities were far beyond the needs of any normal human being. As soon as they tasted it, Atto and his nephew were pleasantly surprised.

  “I didn’t know people ate as well as this in Vienna. Are we in some special place?” asked Domenico.

  “We’re in an eating house like a great many others. But I have to say that even in the lowest tavern here you’ll be served the most fragrant soups, the crispest fries, the most savory roasts,” I said warmly, proud of my adopted city. “All food in Vienna is of high quality, and always of the finest; every ingredient is as fresh as a rose, every portion generous, every dish freshly cooked. And all at decent prices.”

  “And in Paris all you can get are rancid cakes, rock-hard bread and fish from the age of Abraham!” exclaimed the Abbot, with a bitter sneer.

  I was overjoyed with Atto Melani’s amazement and I told him in precise detail all the gastronomic specialities of the heavenly soil he had the honour of treading. Actually, what I was really hoping was to lower Atto’s guard and so make him ready to answer the questions I would put to him shortly about the death of Dànilo Danilovitsch. I knew Melani, and were I to subject him to my questions directly all I would get would be sly, hypocritical and misleading replies.

  If the wealth of a nation can be measured by its food, I began solemnly, addressing my two wondering fellow-diners, then in Austria it was as if King Midas had passed by, transforming everything into gold. A normal family of three eats half a kilo of meat a day, something unimaginable in Rome.

  As I held forth in this fashion, with Atto and his nephew looking more and more dazed, their attention was gradually distracted by an increase in noise from the neighbouring tables.

  It was the less poetic side of the gastronomic passion that characterised the Caesarean capital.

  Domenico looked around himself and soon his perpl
exed eyes fixed on the other diners in the restaurant: there were those who were using their napkins to blow their noses, scratch their heads or mop their brows; those who were swigging their wine, gurgling it in their throats and letting it dribble down their chins and necks; those who kept pouring out wines for their neighbours and digging their elbows amicably but forcefully into their stomachs if they did not knock it straight back; those using their forks to drag the heaviest portions of roast meat from a central tray to their plates, leaving an embarrassing trail of grease across the tablecloth; those licking their plates or scraping them with their fingernails; those sneezing or coughing loudly, spraying their neighbours with phlegm; one who was spitting; one who had burned his tongue with a boiling morsel and was roaring with pain; and finally one who had finished and was surreptitiously bundling up the leftover food in his napkin.

  The expression on Atto’s nephew’s face was one of consternation. He threw an interrogative glance at me, which I pretended not to catch. He did not know that the Viennese lack of table manners had become the subject of sermons for the great Augustinian preacher Pater Abraham from Sancta Clara, and that other eminent authors had issued patient rebukes to the faithful, instructing them to behave less bestially at mealtimes!

  “Domenico, I hear shouting. What is the matter?” asked Atto, picking at his trout.

  At one of the central tables a highly embarrassing scene had taken place. A spit of roast meat had been served straight from the oven. One of the diners, wishing to remove the ash from a haunch of pork, had blown hard on the spit and the burning embers had ended up in the eyes of a woman sitting opposite. Her husband had demanded immediate redress from the guilty party. As their spirits were all heated with wine, a small altercation had broken out, which the staff had struggled hard to quell. Unfortunately before they did so the offended woman’s husband had succeeded in plunging the scorching spit into his adversary’s backside, which he had run off to medicate.

  “Oh, it’s nothing, Signor Uncle, a slight disagreement,” said Domenico, not wishing to expose the less dignified side of the Viennese culinary passion, whose virtues I had just extolled.

  “A friendly exchange of opinions,” I said, trying to back up Domenico’s lie, even though Atto was not fooled.

  “These Viennese and their city are as vulgar as I have heard them to be in Paris,” he said, not concealing the smug satisfaction he took in being able to disparage them. “They may be extremely rich, but their streets are as tangled as a ball of wool, and they’re so narrow that the façades of the palaces, which deserve admiration, are difficult to see . . . though, of course, that does not matter much to me, since I have lost the gift of sight. I appreciate far more the squares of Vienna, where I can walk without any inconvenience, since they’re all paved with very hard stones, are they not?”

  “The stones are so hard that not even the heaviest wheels of the country carts can harm them,” I confirmed.

  “As I thought. But there remains the fact that as the roads are so narrow, the rooms are extraordinarily dark and, what is most annoying, there is no building that is inhabited by only five or six families. Highly distinguished ladies, and even ministers of court, are separated from the apartment of a cobbler or a tailor only by a partition wall, and there is no one who lives on more than two floors of a palace: one for himself and the other for the servants. The owners of the palaces rent out the rest to anyone who asks, and so the great stone staircases are always as dirty and shabby as the streets. But then of course you don’t see the dirt: the buildings are too high, the streets are dark and very little light gets in through the windows. Of course, I can see nothing in any case, alas, but that is what they say in Paris about Vienna. Can you confirm it?”

  “You’re not wrong – it’s often like that, Signor Atto,” I agreed, overwhelmed by his sudden baleful outburst. “However, I would just point out that the interior of the houses –”

  “I know, I know,” the old castrato broke in. “I’ve heard that once you’ve climbed the stairs, there is nothing more astounding than the rooms where the Viennese beau monde live: a series of eight or ten great spacious rooms, with doors and windows all richly carved and gilded, furniture and ornaments of a quality rarely found elsewhere in Europe even in the most princely residences, tapestries from Brussels, gigantic mirrors with silver frames, beds and canopies with damask and velvets of fine taste, great paintings, Japanese porcelain, enormous chandeliers in rock crystal . . .”

  While Atto rattled on, I thought of the occasions when my work had brought me into the homes of the wealthy. Amazing the power of Parisian gossip! Atto was blind, but it was as if he had seen everything with his own eyes. He was clearly torn between admiration and envy for the enemies of France: the previous day, when he arrived, he had been full of praise for Vienna, the Caesars and their restrained opulence, and he had lashed out against the arrogant dissipation of the French, which had brought the country to ruin. But now, envy at all this wealth was stirring him to more venomous and defamatory judgements. Old Abbot Melani was becoming somewhat self-contradictory, I thought with a smile. Unless . . . I was struck by a doubt: suppose Atto had not been sincere the previous day? Suppose he had extolled the good sense of the emperors and the prosperity of their capital city only to avert any suspicion that he might have come to Vienna to plot in league with the Turks? I decided to try an open question:

  “Signor Atto, what do you think of the Agha’s mission? What do you think he’s trying to obtain from His Caesarean Majesty?”

  “That is what I would like to know myself. It could help me greatly in my – or rather in our mission. The suburbs of Vienna, I was saying . . .” he added, returning to the previous subject and biting into a cream-fritter, “like your Josephina, are exquisite. I wonder how often you yourself have paused to admire that jewel, the Vice-Chancellor’s summer villa, Schönborn, from the outside. Yesterday we went for a walk around it, before going to the theatre. They even talk of it in Versailles. And what a garden! And what enormous orange and lemon trees, all in gilded vases! At least that’s how my nephew described it to me.”

  Domenico nodded politely. I returned to the attack, this time with a fairly explicit provocation, hoping to stir Atto into some revealing reaction.

  “Of course, it would be very convenient for France,” I said, “if a new conflict were to break out between the Empire and the Turks: His Caesarean Majesty would have to engage his armies in the East as well. It would be a great relief to the Most Christian King.”

  “I really don’t think that can happen,” answered Atto blandly. “After the treaty of Karlowitz the Eastern waters are peaceful. The Turkish embassy that has just arrived has no other aim than to remind people that the Sultan is still alive, and it strikes me as a purely theatrical gambit.”

  He had contradicted himself. Just a moment before he had said that he had no idea what the motive for the Ottoman embassy was and that he would like to know more.

  “By the way,” he added, changing the subject yet again, “as I mentioned, yesterday afternoon we went to the theatre. They told me that Marianna Pálffy adores comedies, and I hoped to meet her. We took a box for four people; the ticket was very cheap, a ducat. The theatre was dark and the ceiling too low, but I’ve never laughed so much in my life! Thanks to the description my nephew gave me, of course.”

  I made no reply to this idle chatter, but Atto went on regardless:

  “It was a comedy in which Jove assumes the guise of Amphitrion in order to go to bed with his wife Alcmene. But mostly he runs up a series of debts in his place, and for most of the play we see poor Amphitrion being pursued by his creditors. Idle nonsense, with bawdy jokes that wouldn’t be tolerated from a fishwife in Paris, ha ha.”

  Atto persisted in ignoring my questions about the Agha’s embassy, which was the hottest news of the day in Vienna. It was so blatant that it became suspicious.

  “Fashion is terrible here as well, isn’t that right Domenico?” he co
ntinued to ramble.

  “Yes, Signor Uncle.”

  “Sadly I am denied the light of day, dear nephew. In such a large city I can’t even observe the attire of the inhabitants, but I’m not missing much. I know this very well because Domenico reads to me from the Parisian gazettes just how awful the fashion of the Caesarean court is if compared with that of France or England. The only thing they have in common is that ladies wear skirts. Otherwise, Viennese fashion is monstrous and against all common sense. Here even the richest fabric is embroidered heavily in gold and a dress only has to be costly to be admired, no matter whether it’s in good taste or not. On other days, people just put on a simple cloak and whatever they want underneath. Isn’t that true, dear nephew?”

  “Yes, Signor Uncle,” repeated Domenico.

  I was beginning to lose patience.

  “For example, here in Vienna it’s considered especially beautiful to have as much hair as an average-sized barrel could contain. And so ladies have enormous scaffoldings of starched gauze set up and fixed to their heads with ribbons. Then they put them on their heads, resting on round rods, the same ones, the same ones that our dairymaids use to hang buckets of fresh milk on, and they cover this whole infernal contraption with false hair, which everyone here considers extremely elegant.”

  “Signor Atto –” I tried in vain to interrupt him.

  “Then, to hide the difference from real hair,” he went on regardless, “they sprinkle the whole contrivance with pounds of powder and wind it round with three or four strings of diamonds fixed with enormous brooches of pearls or other stones, red, green or yellow. And then, with this paraphernalia on their heads, they can barely move! You can imagine how this outlandish way of dressing brings out the natural ugliness that nature chose to confer on women here, to match their sour, crabbed characters. They told me in Paris that there’s no liveliness here, everybody is stolid and phlegmatic and no one ever gets excited, except over questions of ceremonial. That’s where the Viennese expend all their most frenzied passions. But is it true?”