Secretum

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  "Do you mean an assembly of the people?"

  "Exactly, but instead of nobles, priests and ladies, he would summon thousands of the halt, the lame and the blind, thieves, beggars, mountebanks, whores and dwarves. . . Yes, I mean all manner of beings," he broke off, hastening to correct himself, "but please do remove that apron with all those tools, it must be so heavy," said he, trying to change the subject.

  I did not take offence at Abbot Melani's unfortunate expression; well I knew that many of my less fortunate fellows populated the dark lairs of the criminal fraternity, and I was aware that I for my part had been kissed by good fortune.

  Buvat had returned, washed, combed and wearing clean clothes, but the sateen of his dark green shoes was visibly threadbare, if not torn; one of the oaken heels was shattered and the buckles dangled, almost completely ripped away from their moorings.

  "I left my new shoes behind at the Palazzo Rospigliosi," he at last summoned up the courage to admit, "but I promise you that I shall go and retrieve them before evening."

  "Take care not to forget your head, then," said the Abbot with a sigh of resignation that betrayed contempt, "and do not waste time loafing around as usual."

  "How is your arm?" I asked.

  "Magnificent, I simply adore being sliced up with a sharp blade," he replied, remembering at last to open the letter which had been delivered to him.

  As he read it, a rapid succession of contrasting expressions crossed his features: first he frowned, then his face opened for a few instants in a fleshy and heart-warming smile that caused the dimple on his chin to tremble. At length, he looked pensively out of the window, his gaze lost in the sky. He had grown pale.

  "Some bad tidings?" I asked timidly, exchanging a questioning glance with his secretary.

  We understood from the vacant look on the Abbot's face that he had heard nothing.

  "Maria..." I seemed to hear him murmur, before slipping the badly crumpled letter into the pocket of his dressing gown. Suddenly, Atto Melani looked old and tired again.

  "Now go away. You too, please, Buvat. Leave me alone."

  "But. .. are you sure that you need nothing else?" I asked hesitantly.

  "Not now. Kindly return tomorrow evening at nightfall."

  We had left the Abbot's apartments and descended the service stairs, and within moments my forehead and that of Buvat felt again the scorching breath of the afternoon heat.

  I was dumbstruck: why had Atto fallen into such grave prostration? Who was the mysterious Maria whose name had so softly touched his lips? Was she a woman of flesh and blood or had he perhaps invoked the Blessed Virgin?

  In any case, I thought, as I walked vigorously beside Buvat, it all seemed inexplicable. Atto's faith was certainly not fervent: never - not even at moments of the greatest danger - did I once recall him invoking the assistance of heaven. And yet it would be even stranger if this Maria were a woman of this world. The sigh with which Atto had murmured that name and the pallor which came into his face suggested a promise not kept, an old and unrequited passion, a torment of the heart: in short, a love entanglement.

  Love for a woman: the one test, I thought, to which Atto the castrato would never be equal.

  "You will have a long ride under the sun to Palazzo Rospigliosi, if you want to recover your shoes," said I, turning to Buvat, as I looked in the direction of the stables, seeking the groom.

  "Alas," he replied with a grimace of discontent, "and I have not even had lunch."

  I seized the opportunity without an instant's hesitation.

  "If you so desire, I shall arrange for something to be prepared for you quickly in the kitchens. That is, of course, if you do not mind. .."

  Abbot Melani's secretary did not need to be asked twice. We turned swiftly on our heels and, after leaving the great house through the back door we were soon in the chaos of the Villa Spada's kitchens.

  There, amidst the to-ing and fro-ing of the scullions who were cleaning and the assistant cooks who were getting ready to prepare the evening meal, I gathered together a few leftovers: three spiny needlefish cleansed of their salt, two unleavened ring-cakes and a fine white and azure chinoiserie in the form of a goblet, full of green olives with onions. I also obtained a small carafe of Muscatel wine. For myself, by now almost dying of hunger, I broke off a pair of rough hunks from a large cheese with herbs and honey and laid them on lettuce leaves which I retrieved still fresh from the remains of the luncheon's garnishings. It was certainly not enough to sate my appetite after a day's work, but it would at least enable me to survive until suppertime came.

  In the febrile activity of the kitchens, it was not easy to find a corner in which to consume our late meal. What was more, I was looking for a discreet recess in which to further my acquaintance with that strange being who was acting as secretary to Atto Melani. Thus I might perhaps be able to clarify my ideas somewhat about this Maria and the singular behaviour of the Abbot, as well as the plans which the latter was hatching for his own future and, a fortiori, for mine.

  I therefore proposed to Buvat, who needed no persuading, that we should sit on the grass in the park, in the shade of a medlar or peach tree, where we should also enjoy the advantage of being able to pluck a tasty fruit for our dessert directly from the tree. Without so much as a by-your-leave, we seized a basket and a double piece of jute and walked along the gravel scorched by the midday sun in the direction of the chapel of the Villa Spada. The dense grove of delights which stood behind it was the ideal place for our improvised picnic. Once within the perfumed shade of the undergrowth, the soft freshness of the ground gave instant relief to the soles of our feet. We would have settled on the edge of the wood near the chapel if a subdued and regular snoring had not revealed to us the presence of the chaplain, Don Tibaldutio Lucidi, curled up in the arms of Morpheus, evidently having thought the time ripe to enjoy a brief respite from the fatigues of divine service. After, therefore, placing a certain distance between the chaplain and ourselves, we at length chose as our roof the welcoming umbrella of a fine plum tree replete with ripe fruit, ringed by little wild strawberry bushes.

  "So you are a scribe at the Royal Library in Paris," said I to open our conversation, as we stretched out the ample piece of sacking on the sward.

  "Scribe to His Majesty and writer on my own behalf," he replied, half seriously and half facetiously as he fumbled greedily in the basket of provisions. "What Abbot Melani said of me today is not exact. I do not only copy, I also create."

  Buvat had resented Atto's judgement, yet there was a hint of self-deprecating irony in his voice, the fruit of that resigned disposition which - in elevated minds destined to fill subaltern roles - results from the impossibility of being taken seriously, even by themselves."What do you write?"

  "Above all, philology, although anonymously. On the occasion of a pilgrimage I made to Our Lady of Loreto, in the Marches of Ancona, I arranged for the printing of an edition of certain ancient Latin inscriptions which I had discovered many years previously."

  "In the Marches of Ancona, did you say?"

  "Yes," he replied bitterly, allowing himself to fall to the ground as he plunged his fingers into the goblet of olives. "Nemo propheta in patria, saith the Evangelist. In Paris I have never published a thing: I must even struggle to obtain any pay. 'Tis as well that Abbot Melani is there to commission some small piece of work from time to time, otherwise that envious old skinflint of a librarian. . . But do tell me about yourself. It seems that you too write, or so the Abbot tells me."

  "Er... not exactly, I have never had anything printed. I should have liked to do so, but did not have the means," I replied, embarrassedly turning away my gaze and pretending to fuss over serving him some slices of needlefish with butter. I said nothing to him about my one and only opus, the voluminous memoir of the events which had befallen the Abbot and myself at the Donzello inn many years before, and which Atto had now stolen from me.

  "I understand. But now, if I am not mistaken, th
e Abbot has commissioned you to keep a record of these days," he replied, grasping an unleavened focaccia and greedily hollowing it out to make room for the stuffing.

  "Yes, although it is still far from clear to me what I am supposed to. .."

  "He mentioned his intention to me, saying that you do not write at all badly. You are fortunate. Melani pays handsomely," he continued, slipping a pair of fish slices into the focaccia.

  "Ah yes," I concurred, glad that the conversation was at last turning towards Atto, "and, by the way, what kind of work were you telling me that Abbot Melani commissions you to carry out?" Buvat seemed not to have heard. He paused, as though reflecting, taking his time and spraying the stuffed focaccia with lemon, whereupon he asked me: "Why not show me what you have written? Perhaps I could help you to find a printer.. ."

  "Mmm, it would not be worth the trouble, Signor Buvat. It is but a diary, and it is written in the vulgar tongue. . ." said I, fumbling for pretexts with my nose buried in my lumps of cheese with herbs, yet deploring the weakness of my excuse.

  "And what does that signify?" retorted Buvat, brandishing his bread in protest. "We are no longer in the sixteenth century! Besides, were you or were you not born free? Therefore, you can work in your own way. And just as you would not be compelled to justify yourself to anyone for having written in German or in Hebrew, so you need not justify yourself for having written in the vernacular."

  He broke off to take a bite of his meal, while with his other hand he gestured to me to pass him the wine.

  "And is the majesty of the vulgar tongue not such that it may offer a worthy place to every subject, e'en to matters most exquisite?" he declaimed with his mouth full. "The Reverend Monsignor Panigirola expressed therein the deepest mysteries of theology, as did before him those two most singular minds, Monsignor Cornelio Muso and Signor Fiamma. The most excellent Signor Alessandro Piccolomini found a place in it for almost all philosophy; Mattiolo adapted thereto almost all simple medicine and Valve, all anatomy. Can you not find room in it for the mere bagatelle of a journal? Where the Queen, namely Theology, may commodiously dwell, there too may enter the Maiden Philosophy, and with yet greater ease the Housewife Medicine; how then could there be no place for a mere serving wench like a diary?"

  "But my vernacular is not even Tuscan but the Roman tongue," I countered, chewing the while.

  "Ah, so you have not written in Tuscan!' Thus would the master Aristarchus pass sentence. Yet, I tell you that you wrote not in Tuscan as you wrote not in German, for you are a Roman and whosoever would take pleasure in things Tuscan, let him then read Boccaccio and Bembo. That will soon tire him of his Tuscan tastes." Such was the abrupt riposte of my companion, striking up bizarre poses and speaking with the hoarsest of voices before concluding with a great gulp of Muscatel.

  A fine, sharp intellect, this Buvat, thought I, as I tore off a good piece of lettuce. Despite the sweet freshness of the salad, I felt a slight twinge of envy burning my stomach: if only I too possessed his same quick wit. What was more, being French, he was not even expressing himself in his mother tongue. Ah, the lucky man!

  "I must say, nevertheless," he was at pains to make clear, as he went for the onions with a will, "that you Italians are beset by the most evil custom: as a people, you are veritable dealers in envy. But what kind of barbarous practice is this? What manner of inhuman trade is it to be the mortal enemy of another's praise! No sooner does a good mind make his way forward among you with growing renown and reputation, than he becomes a prey to great locusts which infest him and tear him to pieces, and spread invective and calumny in his path until his worth often falls back into the dust."

  He was surely right, I reflected, with the ease in reaching agreement of one who has just allayed the pangs of hunger, yet I was by no means persuaded that such a vice was exclusively Italian. Had he not himself complained of the vexations which he had been compelled to suffer at the hands of his own envious chief librarian who would let him die of hunger rather than part with a penny? And had he not only moments earlier confessed to me that in Paris they would not let him publish so much as a single line, while in Italy he had found a literary refuge? I did not, however, point this out to him. A weakness common to all peoples, apart from the Italians, is national pride. And I had no interest in wounding that of Jean Buvat; on the contrary.

  Our collation was now drawing to a close. I had succeeded in drawing nothing from Jean Buvat about Abbot Melani, indeed, the conversation had been diverted perilously close to my memoir; not that the Abbot did not deserve that I should denounce his theft to his scribe, only that this would surely have unleashed a whole series of questions about Atto from Buvat, nor did it seem in the least judicious to betray the misdeeds of his patron.

  I therefore changed the subject, pointing out to Buvat - who, as I spoke, continued tirelessly poking around with his hand in the basket of provisions - that we had just eaten all the food we had brought with us and it remained for us only to pick some good fruit from the boughs of the plum tree whose shade we were enjoying. It was, for obvious reasons, Buvat who took upon himself the task of harvesting the fruit, whilst I looked to polishing the ripe plums with the jute and arranging them in our empty basket. The conversation having died away of its own accord, we swallowed a good basketful in religious silence, interrupted only by the parabolic curves described by the plum stones, laid bare by the labours of our jaws.

  Perhaps it was the rhythmical patter of plum stones on the fresh grass under the trees, or perhaps the gentle rustling of the fronds caressed by the zephyrs of early summer, or yet the wild strawberries which - our bodies by now stretched out on the damp maternal bosom of the earth - we picked directly with our lips, or mayhap all these things together; anyway, I know not how it came to pass, but we fell asleep. And, almost in unison, hearing Buvat's snores and telling myself that I must shake him, for he had to go into town to recover his shoes, otherwise he would not return in time before evening, I heard another loud noise grow yet louder, drowning his snoring, and this noise was far nearer and more familiar: I too had dozed off and was blissfully snoring.

  Evening the First

  7th JULY, 1700

  *

  The sun was setting when sounds awoke us. The park of the Villa Spada was now becoming animated by the strolling and conversations of the guests who wandered about admiring the scenic constructions which would, two days hence, provide a worthy setting for the Rocci-Spada wedding, and the echo of voices reached even into our little thicket.

  "Eminence, permit me to kiss your hands."

  "My dearest Monsignor, what a pleasure to encounter you!" came the reply.

  "And what pleasure is mine, Eminence!" said a third voice.

  "You too, here?" resumed the second speaker. "My dearest, most esteemed Marchese, I am almost speechless for joy. But wait, you have not given me time to salute the Marchesa!"

  "Eminence, I too would kiss your hands," echoed a feminine voice.

  As I would later be able to tell without a moment's hesitation (having seen them time and time again during those festive days), those who were thus exchanging compliments were the Cardinal Durazzo, Bishop of Faenza, whence he had just arrived, Monsignor Grimaldi, President of the Victualling Board, and the Marchese and Marchesa Serlupi.

  "How went your journey, Eminence?"

  "Eh, eh, 'twas somewhat fatiguing, what with the heat. I leave you to imagine. But as God willed it, we did arrive. I came only out of the love I bear the Secretary of State, let that be clear. I am no longer of an age for such entertainments. Too hot for an old man like me."

  "Indeed yes, it is so hot," assented the Monsignor condescendingly

  "One seems almost to be in Spain, where they tell me 'tis so very torrid that it feels almost like fire," said the Marchese Serlupi.

  "Oh no, in Spain one is very well indeed, I retain the most excellent memory of that land. A splendid memory, of that I can assure you. Oh! Excuse me, I have just seen an old friend. Mar
chesa, my compliments!"

  I saw Cardinal Durazzo, followed by a servant, break off somewhat brusquely the conversation which he had only just begun and move immediately away from the trio to approach another eminence whom I was later to recognise as Cardinal Barberini.

  "Now really, that allusion. . ." I heard Marchesa Serlupi upbraiding her husband.

  "What allusion? I didn't mean to say anything. . ."

  "You see, Marchese," said Monsignor Grimaldi, "if Your Benevolence will permit me to explain, Cardinal Durazzo, before receiving his cardinal's hat, was Nuncio to Spain."

  "And so?"

  "Well, it seems - but this is of course only gossip - that His Eminence was not at all appreciated by the King of Spain and, what is more, and this however is certain truth, the kinsfolk whom he brought in his train were assaulted by persons unknown, and one of them died of his wounds. So, you can imagine, with the times in which we are living. . ."

  "What do you mean?"