Imprimatur

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  "I do not know how they manage," murmured Atto Melani, un­derstanding my concern, "but they always find their way in darkness, like rats, without any lantern. Have no fear, let us follow them."

  The way out to the Piazza Navona, which we took thanks to the guidance of the two corpisantari, emerged from under the ground more or less opposite the stairway which one must descend when coming from the Donzello. To get there we had, however, to pass through a hole so suffocatingly tight that even Ugonio and Ciacconio, whose horribly twisted and deformed backs rendered the task easier for them, had clumsily to crouch and scramble in order to get through. Atto cursed at the effort, and because he had just soiled his cuffs and his fine red stockings with the damp earth against which we had to squeeze.

  The abbot was most curious to behold, he who spent his days cloistered in his chamber and his nights under the ground, clothed always in the most precious materials: Genoese satin, serge, ratteen from Spain, silk bourette, striped poplin, camlet from Flanders, drug­get, Irish linen; and all stitched with the finest embroidery, with gold and silver thread and plaques, pleated, and garnished with fringes, lace, tassels, bows, ribbons and braiding. In truth, he had no ordinary apparel in his portmanteau, and thus these splendid creations were doomed to a wretched, premature end.

  Beyond the narrow tunnel, we found ourselves in a gallery similar to those which came from the Donzello. Just as I was emerging (more easily than the others) from that tight passage, a question began to gnaw at me. Abbot Melani had, until that moment, shown himself to be most keen to surprise the thief of the keys and of the marguerites, who might perhaps have something to do with the death of Signor di Mourai. To me he had subsequently confided how he had come to Rome in order to resolve the mystery of Fouquet's alleged presence in the city. I suddenly found myself wondering whether the first justification was sufficient cause for his zeal in the pursuit of our nocturnal peregrinations. And thus I came very close to doubting the second pretext. Too flattered by the possibility of close acquaintance with that individual, who was as extraordinary as the circumstances un­der which I had come to know him, I decided that the time had not yet come to follow up such questionings. At that moment, we set off into the darkness, barely assisted by the weak light of our two lanterns.

  A few dozen yards along the new gallery, we came to a bifurcation: to our left, a second passage of the same dimensions led away from the main one. A few steps further, and we found yet another fork: a sort of cavern opened up to our right, without revealing what it con­cealed in its depths.

  "Gfrrrlubh," said Ciacconio, breaking the silence which had descended upon the group since we began our march.

  "Explain!" Atto commanded harshly, turning to Ugonio.

  "Ciacconio says that one may also exitate via this egression."

  "Very well. Then why are we not doing so?"

  "Ciacconio knows not whether you desiderate to exitate to the surface via that egression or, decreasing the scrupules so as not to increase one's scruples,* you would rather be gratified to benefit from a less hazardous itinerary."

  "You would like to know whether we would prefer to emerge from here or elsewhere. And how am I to know? Let us do it this way: let us take a look down here and try to work out what we should best attempt. It will not take us long to gain an idea of these accursed galleries."

  "Gfrrrlubh?" inquired Ciacconio curiously, turning to his com­panion.

  "Ciacconio dubitates whether he has correctally comprehensified," announced Ugonio, translating for Atto.

  "I said: let us take a quick look at the galleries down here, as that should not be too complicated. Are we all agreed?"

  * This means: "By decreasing the dosage of medicine rather than increase the doubts about the Tightness of one's course of action." A scruple (or scrupule) is, among other things, a small unit of weight. The point is to do as little harm as possible. (Translator's note.)

  It was then that Ugonio and Ciacconio exploded into thick, bes­tial, almost demonic laughter, emphasised by obscene and joyous rolling in the filthy mud on which we were walking and by guttural grunting and explosive peptic exhalations. Grotesque and almost painful blubbering completed the picture of our two corpisantari, ut­terly incapable of any self-restraint.

  Once the beast-like wallowing had come to an end and the two relic- hunters had calmed down somewhat, we obtained a few clarifications.

  In his own highly coloured jargon, Ugonio explained that he and his companion had found the idea of exploring breviter et commoditer the pas­sages in that area, or indeed throughout the city, most surprising, seeing that for many years the two corpisantari had, along with innumerable oth­ers, been endeavouring to understand whether the ways of the buried city had a beginning, a middle or an end; and whether the human mind could reduce them to a rational order or, more modestly, whether there so much as existed any certain way of reaching safety, if one were to become lost in its depths. That was why, continued Ugonio, the map of underground Rome which the two corpisantari had prepared for us would have been invaluable and we should have appreciated it. No one had hitherto attempted the audacious undertaking of representing the whole of subterranean Rome; and few, apart from Ugonio and Ciacconio, could boast so detailed a knowledge of the network of tunnels and cav­erns. Yet so precious a repository of subterranean intelligence (to which in all probability no one else was privy, as Ugonio was once more at pains to stress) had not met with our favour, and so...

  Atto and I glanced at each other.

  "Where is the map?" we asked in unison.

  "Gfrrrlubh," said Ciacconio with a half-suffocated voice, opening his arms disconsolately.

  "Ciacconio respectifies the cholerical rejection proffered by your most sublimated and cosmical decisionary," said Ugonio impassive­ly, while his companion lowered his head and, with a horrid regurgita­tion, vomited into the palm of his hand a mush in which, alas, were recognisable a few fragments of the scrap on which the map had been drawn.

  No one came forward to save what remained of the map.

  "Being more padre than parricide, whensoever Ciacconio (or one of his acquaintances) finds a matter not to his approbriation, he avails himself of his mandibles."

  We were confounded. The map (of which we had only now learned the importance) had been devoured by Ciacconio who, according to his colleague, was in the habit of swallowing whatever was disagree­able to himself or to his acquaintances. The precious drawing, now almost digested, was lost forever.

  "But what else does he eat?" I asked, appalled.

  "Gfrrrlubh," said Ciacconio, shrugging his shoulders, and indicat­ing that he really did not care too much what crossed the threshold of his jaws.

  Ciacconio informed us that the second bifurcation, the one which at first resembled a little grotto and turned off to the right, certainly led up to the surface, but the way was rather long. Atto decided that it would be worth exploring the first turning, which led to the left. We turned back and entered the gallery. We had walked only a few score yards when Ugonio caught Atto's attention by pulling hard at his sleeve.

  "Ciacconio has scented a presence in the galleria."

  "The two monsters think that there is someone in the vicinity," murmured Atto.

  "Gfrrrlubh," confirmed Ciacconio, pointing to the tunnel from which we had emerged.

  "Perhaps we are being followed. I and Ciacconio shall wait here, in the dark," decided Abbot Melani. "You two, however, will proceed slowly with both lanterns lit. Thus, we shall be able to intercept him when he follows your light."

  I did not welcome the prospect of remaining alone with Ugonio, but we all obeyed without a murmur. Melani and Ciacconio stayed hidden in the dark. Suddenly, I felt my heart beating harder, while my breath became shorter.

  Ugonio and I advanced for twenty or thirty paces, then we stopped and listened intently. Nothing.

  "Ciacconio has scented a presence and a foliage," Ugonio mut­tered to me.

  "Do you mean to say
a leaf?"

  Ugonio nodded in affirmation.

  A figure could be vaguely discerned in the gallery. I tensed all my muscles for I knew not what: to attack, to face an attacker; more probably, to flee.

  It was Atto. He gestured that we should join him.

  "The stranger was not following us," he announced as soon as we had rejoined him. "He is proceeding alone, and he has taken the main gallery, that which goes straight, after the narrow hole. It is we who shall follow him. We must make haste, or we may lose him."

  We caught up with Ciacconio, who was waiting for us, motionless as a statue, leaning forward into the darkness with the tip of his nose.

  "Gfrrrlubh."

  "Mascular, juvenilious, robustious, scarified," pronounced Ugonio.

  "Male, youthful, in good health, frightened," translated Atto un­der his breath. "I cannot bear them, those two."

  We turned to the left, again taking the main conduit and keeping a single lantern lit with as small a flame as possible. After advancing for a few minutes, we at last glimpsed before us a faint and distant glimmer. It was the lamp borne by our prey. Atto gestured to me to extinguish our own lantern. We walked on tiptoe, striving to move noiselessly.

  For a good stretch, we followed the mysterious traveller, without, however, being able to catch sight of him, because the gallery curved slightly to the right. If we were to move too far forward he in turn might catch sight of us, in which case there was a risk that he might flee.

  Suddenly, from under my foot there came a slight crackling. I had trodden on a dry leaf.

  We halted with bated breath. The individual stopped, too. Ab­solute silence enveloped the gallery. We heard a rhythmic rustling grow steadily nearer. A shadow cast by the light of the man we were following stretched out towards us. We prepared for a clash. The two corpisantari remained motionless, impenetrable behind their cowls. In the penumbra, I descried a faint gleam in Atto's hand. Despite my fear, I managed a smile: it was surely his pipe. Then, where the gal­lery curved, came the revelation.

  We had been following a monster. On the left-hand side of the cavity, the light of the stranger's lantern revealed the shadow of a horrible hooked arm. There followed a pointed, oblong cranium, from which sprouted disgustingly thick and robust fur. The body was form­less and out of proportion. An infernal being, which we had imagined we could surprise, crawled forward menacingly as it approached our little group. We stood as though frozen. The silhouette of the monster took one, two, three paces forward. It was on the point of appearing round the corner of the gallery. It stopped.

  "Go away!"

  We all gave a start, and I felt my strength drain away from me. The shadow on the wall became enormous, deformed beyond any logical expectation. Then it shrank, regaining normal proportions, while the being itself appeared before our eyes in flesh and blood.

  It was a rat the size of a little dog, with a clumsy, uncertain gait. Instead of springing away rapidly upon seeing us (like the sewer rat which I and Atto had run into during the course of our first incursion into the subterranean world), the big creature advanced laboriously, indifferent to our presence. The lantern had projected its silhouette onto the wall of the gallery, magnifying it enormously.

  "Disgusting brute, you frightened me!" said the voice again. The light began to move away from us again. Before darkness descended upon us once more, I exchanged a glance with Atto. Like me, he had no difficulty in recognising the voice of Stilone Priaso.

  Having left the dying rat behind us, we patiently continued on our way. The surprising revelation had provoked in me a turmoil of sup­positions and suspicions. I knew very little about Stilone Priaso, be­yond what he had let slip. He called himself a poet, yet it was clear that he did not live by verse alone. His clothing, although not luxurious, revealed a degree of affluence far beyond that of a mere poetaster of circumstance. I had immediately suspected that the true source of his income must be very different. And now, his inexplicable presence in those underground passages rekindled my every doubt.

  We followed him for another stretch, to a stairway which led up­wards and which suddenly became narrow and suffocating. We were now in darkness. We moved in single file, led by Ciacconio, who had no difficulty in following in the tracks of Stilone Priaso. At the same time, he sensed the variations in the terrain and communicated them to me, who came second in the group, by means of rapid taps on my shoulder.

  Suddenly, Ciacconio halted, then moved on again. The steps had come to an end. I felt a new air caressing my face. From the faint echo of our footfalls, I surmised that the space we had entered was quite vast. Ciacconio hesitated. Atto asked me to light the lantern.

  Great was my confusion when, half-blinded by the light, we looked around us. We were in an enormous artificial cavity, the walls of which were entirely covered with frescoes. In the middle, there stood a great marble object, which I was unable as yet to distinguish clearly. Ugonio and Ciacconio too seemed out of their element in this unknown place.

  "Gfrrrlubh," complained Ciacconio.

  "The malodour conceals the presence," explained Ugonio.

  He referred to the strong odour of stale urine which reigned in this room. Atto stared transfixed at the paintings which looked down on us. One could distinguish birds, the faces of women, athletes, rich floral decorations and everywhere a gay abundance of ornamentation.

  "We have no time," said he, immediately breaking the spell. "He cannot just disappear like this."

  We quickly found two exits. Ciacconio had regained his composure and showed us which, judging by his nose, was the right one to take. He guided us at a frenetic pace through a maze of other rooms, which we were unable to take in, because of our haste and the weak light of our lantern. The absence of windows, of fresh air and of any human presence proved that we were, however, still under the ground.

  "These are Roman ruins," said Atto with a hint of excitement. "We may be under the Palace of the Chancellery."

  "Have you ever been in there?"

  "But of course. I knew the Vice-Chancellor, Cardinal Barberini, very well; he requested a number of favours of me, too. The palace is magnificent and the halls grandiose, even the travertine fagades are not bad, although..."

  He had to break off, because Ciacconio was making us climb a staircase which rose, perilously devoid of any handrail, through the dull emptiness of another great cavity. We all joined hands. The stairs seemed endless.

  "Gfrrrlubh," exulted Ciacconio at the top, pushing open a door that led to the street. Thus, half-dead with fear and fatigue, we again found ourselves in the open.

  Instinctively I filled my lungs, heartened, after five days of quarantine inside the Donzello, by the fine, refreshing night air.

  For once, I could make myself useful. I immediately recognised at once where we were, having been there several times with Pellegrino who purchased provisions for the Donzello at this place. It was the

  Arco degli Acetari, near to the Campo di Fiore and Piazza Farnese. Ciacconio, his nose in the air once more, immediately dragged us towards the broad open space of Campo di Fiore. A light drizzle silently swept over us. In the piazza we saw only two beggars curled up on the ground near to their poor possessions, and a boy who was pushing a hand cart towards an alleyway. We came to the opposite end of the piazza and suddenly Ciacconio pointed out a small building to us. We were in a familiar street, the name of which escaped me. No light came from the windows of the building. At ground level, however, a door was ajar. The street was empty, but in order to exercise the greatest possible caution, Ugonio and Ciacconio mounted guard on either side of us. We drew near: the muffled sound of a distant voice reached us. With extreme caution, I pushed the door open. A little staircase led down to where, behind another half-open door, light seemed to be issuing from a room. The voice came from there, joined now by that of the person addressed.

  Atto preceded me until we reached the foot of the stairs. There, we realised that we were walking on a veritabl
e carpet of scattered leaves. Atto was gathering some of these up, when suddenly the voices drew nearer, just behind the half-closed door.

  "... and here are forty scudi," we heard one of the pair say.

  We rushed up the stairs and went out of the street door, taking care, however, to leave it ajar, so as not to raise any suspicions. With Ugonio and Ciacconio we hid by the corner of the building.

  Our aim had been true: Stilone Priaso emerged from the door. He glanced around him and walked rapidly towards the Arco degli Acetari.

  "And what now?"

  "Now let us open the cage," replied Atto. He murmured some­thing to Ugonio and Ciacconio, who replied with a sordid and cruel smile. And off they trotted on the trail of Stilone.

  "And what about us?" I asked, covered in confusion.