His final words aroused even heartier applause than his earlier ones, accompanied by shouts of approval, whistles and even a few belches.
At the end of his speech Opalinksi climbed down from the table that had served as a platform and came towards us.
“You’ve come to see if your old Jan is busying himself with the Golden Apple, haven’t you?” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ve not forgotten you. In fact I have important news.”
“And what’s that?” said Simonis with interest.
“I’ve discovered who the forty thousand martyrs of Kasim are, the ones poor Dànilo mentioned before giving up his spirit to Our Lord God.”
When Sultan Suleiman moved to attack Vienna and was defeated, Janitzki narrated, just two hours later there fell a famous nobleman named Kasim Beg. He was from Voivodina, a land near Hungary, but, like many rebels from over there, he had found no better way to vent his hatred against the Empire than by adopting the religion of Allah. Kasim had been given the task of distracting the Christian army, which was pursuing the Sultan. Suleiman’s order to him was to ravage all the territories across the Danube, exterminating and setting fire to every village. The trick succeeded. In order to defend the lives of at least the women and children, whom Kasim’s soldiers were slicing up like sausages, the Christian troops lost sight of Suleiman, who thus managed to escape with the rest of the army. Kasim, instead, paid dearly for his crimes. Together with his forty thousand men he was massacred by the Christian soldiers, enraged by his cruel treatment of the helpless. Ever since then the Muslims have considered Kasim’s forty thousand as martyrs for the faith.
“It is said that on Friday nights on the site of the battle one can still hear their war cry: ‘Woe to you! Allah! Allah!’ ” concluded Opalinski. “Even today you can still see the remains of statues representing young soldiers, erected to commemorate the forty thousand martyrs.”
“And so Dànilo Danilovitsch’s last words refer to this story,” I said with disappointment.
“Yes,” said Opalinski. “I’m afraid our poor companion was repeating in his agony what he had just learned: Kasim, Eyyub and so on. Nothing secret, at least apparently not. But my investigation isn’t over, quite the contrary –”
“No, Jan, thank you very much,” I cut him short. “Leave off. This story of the Golden Apple is becoming too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” he repeated, with a vaguely sceptical air.
And so I told him about the dervish’s disturbing transactions, but the Pole did not seem troubled.
“Here’s some money as a reward for your services,” I said, handing him a little bag. “I want to warn the others as soon as possible,” I concluded. “Do you know where I can find them?”
“Koloman was serving as a waiter here this evening, but I don’t know which room he’s working in,” answered Opalinski, weighing the bag with satisfaction. “Dragomir went off almost immediately.”
“And the Pennal?” asked Simonis.
“Haven’t seen him.”
We had no choice but to go and find Populescu, at the Andacht on the Kalvarienberg, where he had told us he was to meet his brunette. Then we would look for Koloman Szupán.
Simonis and I took leave of one another. We agreed that we would meet up at nine o’clock in a place to be agreed on. The Greek would let me know where: he had to find Penicek, so that we could go there in his cart.
Even in the excitement of the last few hours, I had not stopped thinking of the events of the day. Images of the flight over Vienna on board the Flying Ship rolled ceaselessly through my mind. And Cloridia’s idea kept buzzing in my head even more insistently: to try and exploit the powers of the winged boat. If we could learn how to steer the ship, we could turn it into an invincible instrument in our favour. We could spy on the Turks through the windows of the palace where they were lodging on the Leopoldine Island, as my combative wife had proposed, but we could also fly over the Hofburg, where the Emperor was lying ill, victim of some obscure plot, and, who knows, maybe even descend to look through the windows . . . No, no, I told myself, my imagination was running away with itself.
But it would do no harm to find out a little more about this whole matter. And so I decided to take advantage of the authority that Simonis had over the Pennal, and asked that he be entrusted with a small mission: to gather information about the history of attempts at human flight as fast as he could.
However, we would not be able to give the Bohemian student any reason for this task: if we told anyone what had happened in the Place with No Name, we would be taken for madmen.
“All right, Signor Master,” Simonis finally agreed. “I won’t tell him anything, and I’ll order him to bring the results tomorrow morning.”
We separated. There was another matter that required my urgent attention.
20 of the clock: eating houses and alehouses close their doors.
Trumpet blasts and drum rolls filled the vault of the Caesarean chapel, while the bass voice intoned melodious lines:
Sonori concenti
Quell’aure animate,
Spiegate, narrate
Le gioie del cor10
Camilla de’ Rossi was conducting the orchestra with a grave face, absorbed in countless cares. I was attending the rehearsal of Sant’ Alessio seated in my usual place, and already the events of the last few hours were skittering about in my heart and in my mind: the nocturnal excursion on the trail of Populescu, the touching account that Simonis had given me of the death of Maximilian, the incredible journey on board the Flying Ship...
But I had no time to meditate any further. This brief restorative interval was interrupted as Abbot Melani came up, resting on Cloridia’s arm, and hovered over me.
I glared at my wife, and she responded by rolling her eyes to heaven, as if to say, “There was nothing I could do.”
Since Cloridia had started looking after him, Atto had become as fretful and capricious as a little boy. Instead of staying at the convent of Porta Coeli in the company of poor Domenico, who was still ill, he had demanded and had been allowed to attend the rehearsal of the oratorio. I could imagine his real motive: after my outburst the previous evening, he wanted to talk to me at all costs. As usual, the old castrato was going to come up with some cock-and-bull story to counter my accusations and dismiss them. I was all too familiar with this procedure. It had always happened like this in the past: on every occasion he had managed to allay my justifiable suspicions, playing with me like a puppet and fooling me completely. It would be interesting to see the expression on his face if he found out that I had witnessed his dealings with the Armenian! And that I had met Ugonio! What absurd story would he invent to justify himself?
He was a Siren, wily old Abbot Melani, and I was Ulysses. And so this time I would not listen to a single one of his beguiling words. That was the only way I could be sure of not getting snagged again on the hook of his lies like a simpleton.
“After all, Signor Abbot is a musician,” said Cloridia, to justify their arrival, referring to Atto Melani’s former career as a singer.
With a skilful manoeuvre, Abbot Melani somehow managed to get past Cloridia and sit down beside me.
“Over the last few days I’ve lost a lot of blood from the piles,” Atto whispered to me, sounding like a victim.
I did not turn round.
“A few years ago in Paris,” he added, “the change in the weather and the thaw caused a great turmoil in the humours of my body. In the morning I had gone to pay my respects to the Lord Marquis of Torcy and I was obliged to go straight back home without seeing him.”
I remained impassive.
“You know, I’m used to it by now, and it doesn’t bother me too much. And I always wear this little ring here on my finger, which they say is good for piles. The Grand Duke of Tuscany sent it to me.”
Atto waved the ring that he wore on his little finger in front of my nose.
“But after a bleeding, when I have a bowel movement it hurts,
and these are the worst pains. They torture and weaken one.”
He wanted to stir my compassion. I continued to pretend not to hear.
“I’ve suffered a great deal,” he insisted. “It was five months since my piles last bled. And then I applied leaves of Juno, which softened the varicose veins and, thank God, finally caused them to break. To stop the bleeding I used powder of thalictrum.”
The bass, against a background of brass and percussion, continued his rumblings:
Con gare innocenti
Di voci erudite . . .11
“Signor Atto, you’re disturbing the rehearsal,” I whispered in annoyance into his ear, terrified at the thought of drawing the attention of any of the musicians.
“Unfortunately I’ve run out of it now,” Melani went on imperturbably. “The French called it argentine. Do you think you could get some for me? I need it urgently, alas: as soon as I sit on the seat for a bowel movement, the piles come flushing out in clusters, two or three at a time, like cherries, I don’t know if you can picture them.”
. . . Cantate, ridete
Le glorie d’Amor12
The contrast between Atto Melani’s anatomical descriptions and the sweetness of Camilla de’ Rossi’s music was unbearable. Luckily at that moment there came the break. I took advantage of it to get up and escape from the Abbot’s company. He tried to stand up as well. I ordered him, with a sharp glance at Cloridia also, not to move from his seat. And then I moved away quickly.
Almost at once I ran into Gaetano Orsini, who greeted me with his usual joviality.
“How are things, my dear friend? Is your family well? I’m glad to hear it.”
“My compliments to you,” I said deferentially.
“A friend of mine is having problems with his chimney. Can I promise him you’ll drop by one of these days?”
“Of course, I’m at your service, and his as well. Would it be one of my fellow workers who didn’t do his job properly?”
“Who can say? From what I’ve heard, every time he came he was as drunk as a lord – he doesn’t remember anything either, ha ha ha!” chortled Orsini.
He gave me the address, a small palace near the Coppersmiths’ Slope. I promised that I would see to it as soon as possible.
“Do your best,” he urged me. “My friend was a gentleman of the chamber of the late Cardinal Collonitz, the hero of the siege of Vienna.”
“Hero?”
“Yes, in 1683, during the final battle against the Turks, Collonitz always managed to find money to provide food for the people and to pay the soldiers. How he did it, no one knows. And he was always in the front line, saving souls and rescuing orphans. He was made a cardinal in 1686 for his heroism. He died four years ago.”
In 1686: so Collonitz was appointed cardinal by Pope Innocent XI, Benedetto Odelscalchi, whose sinister plots I know all too much about. My deceased father-in-law had worked for the Odelscalchi. Now I remembered: it was my father-in-law who had mentioned the name of Collonitz to me. He was one of their right-hand men at Emperor Leopold’s court.
“I beg you to remember me most warmly to my friend. His name is Anton de’ Rossi.”
I noted the coincidence but said nothing.
When Orsini had left me, I saw Abbot Melani approaching swiftly on Cloridia’s arm.
“Nothing I can do about it, he won’t stay in his place,” whispered my wife, rolling her eyes to heaven again.
I silently cursed the Abbot and my own consort.
“Signor Atto, you’ve arrived most opportunely. I wanted to introduce you to Gaetano Orsini, the soprano who’s singing in the role of Alessio. Come with me,” I said.
I was trying to get rid of him by palming him off on the good-natured and talkative Orsini, who was a castrato like the Abbot and might distract him from his purpose of sticking close to me all evening.
“No, for heaven’s sake,” the Abbot said with a start.
“I’ll introduce you as Milani, intendant of the imperial post, of course,” I assured him in a whisper. “Our dear Chormaisterin certainly won’t betray you, will she? And Orsini isn’t exactly the sharpest of –”
“I see that in thirty years I haven’t managed to teach you anything at all! Is it possible that you’re still taken in by appearances?” hissed Atto in exasperation. “Instead of tormenting yourself with disgraceful suspicions about me,” he added acidly, “you would be wiser to keep a closer eye on those around you.”
Of course Camilla would keep the secret, Atto explained, but had he not told me many years ago that you will find the worst spies of all among musicians? Was not trafficking in notes and pentagrams almost synonymous with espionage and secret messages? The name of Melani was all too well known among musicians: in his day he had been one of the most famous castrati in Europe. Presenting him falsely as Milani, he was convinced, would not protect him from the suspicions of one for whom lies were practically his daily bread.
Had he not told me, when I first met him, about the guitarist Francesco Corbetta, who under the pretence of concerts acted as a secret courier between Paris and London? At the same time we had also stumbled across the secrets of musical cryptography which had been most skilfully employed by the celebrated Jesuit scientist Athanius Kircher, who had used scores and pentagrams to hide state secrets of tremendous gravity. And I should be aware that the famous Giovan Battista Della Porta in his De furtivis litterarum notis had illustrated numerous systems by which messages of every kind and length could be concealed in musical writing.
He was right. I had not reflected on this but now I remembered it well. The Abbot had described very clearly just how talented and skilful musicians were at espionage, like the famous John Dowland, Queen Elizabeth’s lutist, who used to hide coded messages in the manuscripts of his music. Had that not been the trade practised throughout Europe by the young castrato Atto Melani?
I had always regarded Camilla de’ Rossi’s orchestra with a mixture of sympathy and innocence. But really I should have looked on them very differently: behind every violin, every flute and every drum there could be concealed a spy.
“So why on earth did you come to the rehearsal?” I demanded sotto voce, looking around myself, suddenly afraid that we might be overheard.
“If I keep my mouth shut nothing will happen. And you already know the answer to your question: I have to talk to you. Seriously. After what happened the other night, when you made all those horrible accusations against me, you and I have to clarify matters. If you will give me a proper chance.”
“I haven’t got time now,” I answered curtly.
I looked at Cloridia. On her face I saw neither approval nor blame, but just an ironic half-smile.
Having once again turned my back on Abbot Melani, leaving him with my wife, I went up to Camilla. The Chormaisterin’s face was tired and drawn.
“Good evening, my dear,” she greeted me affably.
After exchanging a few desultory remarks I decided to say: “I came across the name of a certain Anton de’ Rossi, a gentleman of the chamber of the late Cardinal Collonitz. Was he by any chance a relative of your late husband?”
“Come now, my name is the commonest in Italy. The world is full of Rossis,” she said amiably, before announcing to the musicians, with three handclaps, that the break was over.
She was right, I thought, going back to my place, the world is full of Rossis.
But what a strange coincidence, all the same.
When the rehearsal of the oratorio was over, I went to say goodbye to Cloridia. I had received a note from Simonis in which he told me to meet him at the Blue Bottle coffee shop. I explained to her that I had to go to the Kalvarienberg in search of Populescu.
“Who, that Romanian who bragged about knowing the Turkish harems?” asked my wife, recalling Dragomir’s boasts, which she had cut short by calling him a eunuch.
“That’s the one. I want to tell him –”
“You’re going to the Blue Bottle, boy? It’s close by, g
ood, good. Monna Cloridia, you’ll take me there, won’t you? A good hot coffee will do me the world of good.”
It was Abbot Melani. He had risen from his seat and rejoined us. I did not bother to protest. I just noticed that, when he was anxious about something, he did not allow his blindness to get in the way.
Cloridia entrusted our son to the Chormaisterin, asking her to put him to bed, and we set off.
On the short journey I explained why I was looking for Populescu: I was afraid for the safety of Simonis’s companions and I wanted them to leave off their investigations into the Golden Apple.
“So you really believe,” interjected Atto with a chortle as we entered the coffee house, “that those Slavic daredevils are in danger because of senseless Turkish legends?”
Simonis was already sitting at a table in the coffee shop waiting for Penicek. He was surprised to see me arrive with other people. I explained that the Abbot had just come for a cup of coffee and then he would go back to the convent, accompanied by Cloridia. Atto did not protest.
“On the Kalvarienberg we’ll also find Koloman Szupán,” the Greek informed me. “I met him coming out from work and took the chance to tell him that you wanted to speak to him and pay him. He said he’ll definitely come along.”
Unlike the previous occasion, when I had entered the coffee house with Abbot Melani just after our first encounter, the place was now full of people. There small groups of cavaliers engaging in friendly conversation, a few elderly gentlemen with books, and waiters bustling between the tables and the kitchen, clearing away plates and cups and tidying up after customers.
“You’re a lucky man, so young and strong. Judging by your voice, at least,” began Atto, sitting down beside the Greek. “My health is very shaky in this changeable season.”
Veritas (Atto Melani) Page 44
