Veritas (Atto Melani)

by Monaldi, Rita

  “How can this be, Signor Master? What’s keeping us up?” asked Simonis repeatedly, and I could answer with nothing but dumb amazement.

  Then, once the crazy exaltation of the first minutes of flight had died down, we noticed a strange phenomenon. Above our heads, in the ship, were the four guy ropes I had observed the first time I visited the Flying Ship. From the ropes, as I remembered, hung numerous fragments of amber, but now the precious yellow stones were completely transformed. They were no longer dead matter: the gems vibrated, as if an invisible energy were stirring them, and they were resonating in harmony with it. A light rustling noise came from the amber stones, a sort of faint poem of sounds.

  I touched one. It immediately stopped vibrating. Then, just an instant later, it started again. I touched the rope with the tip of my finger. The cable was completely motionless, and showed no sign at all of agitation. It was as if it were secretly transmitting some form of invisible vitality, coming from the tail of the Flying Ship, which was transmitted to the fragments of amber, and the intense impulse that it conveyed made them chirp with the celestial music. Was this the force that made the ship fly? And if so, how? What sublime engineer and musician had managed to compel a secret force to serve an equally secret motor, and to turn it into a prodigy? He must have been greater than the famous Leonardo, than Bernini, and even than Heron, who had succeeded in forcing the doors of a temple open by lighting a fire somewhere else entirely.

  But other details seemed inexplicable. As I have already mentioned, the hull of the Flying Ship did not consist of simple planks with smooth surfaces, but of polished tubes, which formed a huge bundle whose extremes were, at the stern, the tip of the tail, and at the prow, the bird’s head, which acted as figurehead. Well, those wooden pipes, which had seemed lifeless and inert when I examined the Flying Ship on the ground, now seemed to be the channel for a current of air, an interior gust or flow, which, like that of the pieces of amber, radiated from the tail of our aircraft towards the prow. Whether this current was of air or of some fluid, it was impossible to say: all that issued from the tubes was a kind of lowing noise, like the sound that can be produced by rolling up a sheet of paper into a tube and shouting into it.

  At the prow, enigmatic and impassive, the Flying Ship’s hawk’s head cleft the air of the sky above Vienna like a real and living bird. Above the cabin, and therefore above the ropes that held the pieces of amber, the bellying sail that gave our ship almost the appearance of a sphere, flapped cheerfully as it was buffeted by the wind. At the stern, the flag of the Kingdom of Portugal, lashed by the gusts of the upper air, flapped proudly and seemed in a hurry to get somewhere.

  “Why?” I asked the aged airship, fingering its age-blackened boards, “why did you choose this day after all this time? Why with us on board?”

  The bird’s head, at the prow, continued on its way undaunted.

  “Maybe, Signor Master, I don’t know . . . but . . .” shouted Simonis, trying to outdo the din coming from the tubes of the craft.

  “Go on,” I urged him, terrified and at the same time disheartened, while the Flying Ship described a great curve to the right, and seemed to want to head towards the bends of the Danube. Then it resettled towards the left. For a moment we slightly lost our balance and had to hold on to our seats. My heart pounded with the force of a fusillade.

  “It’s as if the ship took off just to grant us our wish!”

  “I would have been happy to stay on the ground!” I replied.

  In part I was lying; under the mantle of panic I could feel a sense of absurd euphoria at being one of the few, the very few, men (indeed, who else was there?) to have ever flown.

  “I meant another wish!” shouted Simonis again. “To find the Golden Apple! Isn’t that what we want, and what we wanted when the ship took off?”

  I fell silent, bowing my head, partly because of the strong wind, partly because I was ashamed to admit that I shared that totally irrational thought with Simonis, the foolish student (if that is what he was). I, too, had thought, or rather I had felt, that the Flying Ship had unfurled its wings for us, in response to our wish to discover the secret of the Golden Apple and settle its final fate. It was as if our own willpower had set in motion some arcane mechanism, some ancient hidden force, which had been awaiting this moment of reawakening for a precise purpose: was not the Golden Apple, according to Ugonio, the reason the ship had been built?

  Penetrating the secret of the Golden Apple, as we wished to do, would probably lead us to solve many other questions connected with it, if not all of them: the outcome of the war, the fate of the Emperor, and with it the fate of Europe itself and of the world. Supposing that objects had free will, was this what the Flying Ship wanted as well? If so, our fear and the risk we were running would be of some use. I was overcome by an excess of emotions and I could not restrain myself. “O majestic ship of the celestial air,” I said in a low voice with my hands clasped, while the freezing wind whipped my forehead and neck, “I don’t know if I will come out alive from your belly. But if I do, and if you really wish what we wish, use your power justly and be for us the Ark of Truth, of Redemption and of Justice. So arrange things that the Golden Apple shall lead us from the labyrinth where we are lost.”

  We were now flying through that portion of the sky over the curves of the Danube. I could see the Prater (and with a sudden pang I saw Hristo’s livid, snow-crushed face again), and the series of curiously named muddy islets around which the river weaves its way: the Stone, the Walkway, the Valley of Tabor, the Old Stove, the Port of Hunters and finally the Embankment, not far from that path in the Prater where my life had been saved by a Bulgarian chessboard.

  Simonis and I pointed out to each other places and districts in the city. As if we were bending over a geographical map, we competed in identifying the monastery of Porta Coeli, my house in the Josephina, and then the walls of the Caesarean Palace, this or that rampart in the walls, the city gates, villas and gardens in the suburbs, the great expanse of the Glacis or the little suburb of Spittelburg. We could clearly make out even the distant gate of Mary Help of Christians in the Linienwall and the road towards Hietzing. The great wall of the Linienwall was so clear that it might have been visible from much higher up, said Simonis, perhaps even from the moon.

  “O Ark of Redemption and of Justice,” I said with tears in my eyes, as I counted one after another the gardens of Lichtenthal, the villas of Rossau and the gate of Währing, “O Ark of Truth, if you deserve this name, which of my few merits made you choose me for this feat? Were you not deterred by my many weaknesses as a man and a sinner?” And even as warm tears coursed down my chilled cheeks, I smiled at Simonis, and he was crying himself and smiling at me, and not even his foolish face, his untrimmed fringe and protruding teeth could conceal his and my perturbation: we wanted a god of the air that we could kneel to, but we were confronted only by a mystery.

  “Signor Master, suppose someone down there sees us?”

  “Let’s hope not, otherwise they’ll put us in prison as they did with the man who brought the ship from Portugal. If anyone does see us, let’s hope they take us for a flight of geese, or that they think they’re seeing things.”

  “If they take us for geese they’ll shoot us. Goose stew is a favourite dish here in Vienna,” said Simonis with a strained smile.

  Then he exclaimed:

  “Look, Signor Master, a cloud is coming towards us!”

  Instinctively we shielded our faces, as if that vaporous cotton wool could hurt us. Obviously nothing happened, except we found ourselves immersed in its unreal white haze.

  In Rome the sky is of gold and lapis lazuli, perfumed and rounded, and the clouds are always high and distant. In Vienna the light and tint of the sky express plainness of spirit, linearity of thought, a love for things noble and ancient, the typical inclinations of that people. The clouds are almost always low, the firmament is periwinkle-blue. The ship leaned slightly to one side, tracing a broad semi
circle to the left.

  “We’re circumnavigating the city,” I deduced.

  The Flying Ship was gradually steering its prow back towards the Place with No Name.

  We completed the short flight back from the city to Neugebäu without saying a word. When our ship began to descend towards the stadium, we were almost sorry that the secret gods of the sailing ship had decided to take their leave of us. It all ended in the calmest and neatest fashion, as if the invisible pilot who had been steering the ship by our side wished to round things off with a neat display of his prowess. We saw Frosch’s little mice gradually turn back into lions and tigers, the puddles of the Place with No Name grow into fish ponds, and the mansion shed its toy-like appearance and reassume its majesty. The Flying Ship landed without any trouble, as if it were always doing this, right in the centre of the stadium, almost in the exact same spot from which it had taken off. The ship settled on the ground with a dull thud, as if the vital force that had animated it had suddenly vanished. My little boy had been watching us on our homeward journey for a while now, and as soon as we stepped to the ground he burst into a welcoming clamour of tears and laughter. My legs, sorely tested, trembled as if I had been fasting for a week; when I leaped from the ship I almost fell headlong to the ground.

  Not knowing what to say, I hugged my child and, as if returning from a simple donkey ride, I said: “Well, that’s that done.”

  Frosch had not yet returned from his patrol outside the Place with No Name. He might have seen the Flying Ship take off; it was probably better to go straight back to town, so that he could not know for sure that we had been aboard the ship.

  “You never know,” I said, urging Simonis and my boy towards the door out of Neugebäu, “no one can guarantee that Frosch wouldn’t tell on us. I’ve already risked my life twice in this place: with Mustafa and with this Flying Ship. I’d rather not end up in prison.”

  In just a few minutes we had collected all our equipment and were on our way back to Porta Coeli. As we left the Place with No Name, still dazed by what had happened and still suffering from that dizzy feeling that hits you when you come back to land after a long voyage, my son continued to bombard us with questions. It was only by a miracle that I heard the same curious noise, halfway between a trumpet and a drum, that I had first noticed on the great terrace of Neugebäu. But I was still too befuddled by our recent experiences to pay any heed to it.

  17 of the clock, end of the working day: workshops and chancelleries close. Dinner hour for artisans, secretaries, language teachers, priests, servants of commerce, footmen and coach drivers (while in Rome people take but a light refection).

  When we got back to Porta Coeli it was too late for Simonis to take part in the re-opening ceremony at the university.

  “Anyway there will be a second unofficial ceremony this evening, organised by us students,” he told me. “God willing, I won’t miss that one.”

  “I could come with you, to look for Populescu and the others.”

  “Certainly, Signor Master, if you wish.”

  Despite the many events of that day, I had not forgotten that I wanted to put the Greek’s three surviving companions on their guard and to tell them to proceed no further. With Dragomir, to tell the truth, I had already tried the previous night, but the Romanian had been too drunk to understand a single word, and so now we were looking for him again, in the hope of finding him sober, or at least of finding Koloman Szupán or Jan Janitzki Opalinski.

  On the journey home we had chosen not to talk about our adventure in front of the little apprentice. I asked my assistant to take him to dinner. Meanwhile, with my stomach still taut from my aerial journey, I rushed to see Cloridia.

  I had had no opportunity to spend any time with her since the previous evening, when, in the convent chapel we had learned the sad news of the Emperor’s illness. The events that had followed had overwhelmed me: my rage with Atto, my visit to Simonis, the wanderings in search of Populescu, the encounter with Ugonio, the happy news of Joseph I’s improvement and finally, while she was at work, my absurd flight on the winged Portuguese ship at Neugebäu. Now I surely had the right to spend a little time with my wife and to tell her all that had happened! I was already thinking that I might take her with me to the Place with No Name to show her the Flying Ship and ask for her advice, since she was never astounded by the supernatural. Cloridia might be able to explain what had happened to me.

  Now my little wife was once again all for me, I thought exultantly. Her stint at the palace of the Most Serene Prince must have finished that morning. After a new audience with Eugene, the Agha and his retinue would have returned to the palace of the widow Leixenring, on the Leopoldine Island. The Prince of Savoy was to set off tomorrow for the war at The Hague, in the Low Countries.

  “My love,” I called out as I opened the front door.

  There was no reply. I looked for her in the bedroom – no sign. Cloridia was not there. Maybe they had kept her back at the palace of the Most Serene Prince, I said to myself. I was crossing the cloisters, heading back towards the porter’s lodge to ask the nun there if she had seen her come home, when I heard:

  “It was so long since I had felt any discomfort, except for the weakness in my sides and my legs, that it struck me as strange last night to have an attack of colic – and one that lasted for several hours. I felt some relief after taking a large glass of fresh water with citron, which has been my usual remedy for over thirty years now. There is no worse torture than gravel: calculi and urine retention. It’s a terrible illness, and if it had happened to me on the journey I would have died in some inn. And what was worse, it was accompanied by painful intestinal discharges.”

  It was Abbot Melani’s voice. He was telling someone about his collapse the previous evening, when I had burst so furiously into his room. He was coming in my direction, perhaps to go for a short walk in the cloisters with his nephew. I decided not to let him see me: I did not want to risk being dragged into any more of his intrigues. I hid behind a column.

  “And so I suppose,” Atto’s voice continued, “that this mishap struck me because two days ago I took two mugs of chocolate that the Signora Connestabilessa sent me some time ago from Madrid. The Chormaisterin to whom I showed them told me that they were not high-quality chocolate. Alas, I’m blind now and I didn’t notice anything strange in the taste. I swear that I’ll never go through this again, and as long as I live I’ll never touch chocolate again!”

  I grew pale. So Atto was still in touch with the Connestabilessa Colonna! I knew that name well: she was Prince Eugene’s aunt, sister of his mother Olimpia Mancini. The Connestabilessa’s name was Maria, and eleven years earlier she had been the Abbot’s accomplice in the intrigues in favour of France, which had led to the outbreak of the War of the Spanish Succession.

  I also noticed that Melani, talking with his unknown interlocutor, attributed his malaise of the previous evening not to the news of the illness that threatened the life of his Caesarean Majesty, but to . . . a cup of bad chocolate. He was certainly not making an excuse: no one could be ashamed of having been taken ill at the grave news that had shaken and distressed the whole city. And so all the elements in his defence came tumbling down: the accusation of plotting with the Turks to have Joseph poisoned had provoked no reaction in Abbot Melani.

  “My head still feels very weak, so I know I must take a rest and I mustn’t tire myself out as I have been doing until today. The March moon has always been fatal to me and I committed the imprudence of setting forth on a journey in that very month – and what’s more, to come to this freezing place, while in the rest of the civilised world it’s already spring!”

  Atto, worn out by his eighty-five years, was inveighing against the long Viennese winter.

  “Well, my dear, I’m so glad that you have accepted my proposal. Deprived as I am of the gift of sight, and with Domenico confined to bed by that awful cold, you are my salvation.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Sign
or Abbot, and I thank you once again for your generous remuneration.”

  I was dumbfounded. It was my wife’s voice.

  It did not take me long to understand. Atto’s nephew had fallen ill and the old castrato had suddenly found himself without assistance. He was travelling incognito in a foreign land – even worse, in the enemy’s land; who could he have turned to if not my trusted consort? By a stroke of luck, furthermore, Cloridia had just finished her term of service at Prince Eugene’s palace. My wife had obviously been very happy to accept the offer from Abbot Melani, who, as I had just heard, had clearly hired her on generous terms.

  So I grumpily bade farewell to the idea of any intimacy with my wife this evening. Curse Melani! We did not need his money: I was already earning enough myself, and I even had enough left over to send to our daughters in Rome. I had wanted to be able to relax a little with my wife at last, and instead she had been whisked off by the old castrato. My anger at this unwelcome surprise made me even more distrustful of the sinister Abbot.

  Crestfallen, I went off to have dinner at the tavern, where I joined Simonis and my little apprentice. I arranged with the Greek that later he would pick me up to go and see the students’ post-paschal ceremony.

  On the way back to the convent, my little boy said he urgently needed to urinate. As usual with children, it is wisest not to keep them waiting in such circumstances, lest they should wet themselves. So I judged it best to go swiftly into a narrow, dark side street off Porta Coeli Street. While my son relieved himself, I heard:

  “So how did it go?” said a voice in Italian, which I immediately recognised.

  “As you can imagine, it wasn’t easy, effendi,” answered the other, in a foreign accent. “But in the end we managed it – when they saw your money, they gave in.”