by Rita Monaldi
I was exceedingly irritated, and so all the more desirous of squaring up to the abbot in order to put to the proof my ability to stay ahead of his moves, to unmask his omissions, to interpret his silences and to cut through his eloquence.
Indulging myself in the subtle and envious rancour which I felt for Melani, worn out by my sleepless night, I fell very gently asleep. On the point of giving myself up to Morpheus, I unwillingly banished the thought of Cloridia.
For the second time that day, I was awoken by Cristofano. I had slept for four hours without a break. I felt well, I know not whether because of my nap or the magnolkore which I had taken care to drink and to spread on my chest beforehand. On seeing that I had recovered, the doctor left, reassured. I remembered then that I must complete my round of visits to administer the remedies against infection. I dressed and took with me the bag containing the little jars. I intended first of all to administer a stomach theriac and a decoction of ivy with syrup to Brenozzi, and a fumigation to Stilone Priaso, then to descend to the first floor and visit Devize and Dulcibeni. I passed through the kitchen in order to boil a little water in the kettle.
I ordered matters so as to deal quite swiftly with the Venetian. I could no longer tolerate his manner of interrogating me, putting questions and then answering them himself before I could so much as open my mouth. Nor could I refrain from observing his disgusting habit of grasping his nether parts in restless counterpoint, like those youngsters who have just lost their innocence but, being inexperienced in life, cannot stop pestering their little celery stalk with vain digital interrogations. I saw that he had not touched his food but avoided asking questions, fearing that this might unleash another flood of words.
I then knocked on the Neapolitan's door. He called me in but, while I was laying out my things, I saw that he too had left his meal untouched. I asked him if by any chance he felt unwell.
"Do you know where 1 come from?" he asked me in response.
"Yes Sir," I replied in some perplexity. "From the Kingdom of Naples."
"Have you ever been there?"
"Alas, no, I have never visited any other city in my whole life."
"Very well, know then that in no land has heaven been so prodigal of its beneficent influences in every season," he began grandiloquently, while I prepared his inhalation. "Naples, gentle and populous capital of the twelve provinces of the kingdom, is situated in a magnificent theatre overlooking the sea, framed by soft hills and rolling plains. Founded by a nymph named Partenope, it enjoys the myriad fruits, the purest fountains, the famed fennel and all manner of herbs offered by the nearby plain known as Poggio Reale, all of which may justifiably raise eyebrows into arches of wonderment. Then, on the fertile littoral of Chiaia, as on the hills of Posilippo, cauliflowers are harvested, and peas, cardoons and artichokes, radishes, roots and the most exquisite salads and fruit. Nor do I believe that there exists a place more fertile and delightful, o'erflowing with every amenity, than the proud shores of Mergellina, ruffled only by soft zephyrs, which deservedly received the ashes of the immortal Marone and of the incomparable Sanazzaro."
So it was not purely by chance that Stilone Priaso styled himself a poet. He, in the meanwhile, pursued his discourse from under the sheet with which I had covered his head, immersed in balsamic vapours: "Moving further, we come to the antique city of Pozzuoli, with its copious bounty of asparagus, artichokes, peas and pumpkins out of season; and in the month of March, early sour-grape juice, to the good people's astonishment. Luscious fruit on Procida; on Ischia, medlars both white and red, fine Greco wines and pheasants plentiful. At Capri, the finest of heifers and splendid quails. Pork at Sorrento, game at Vico, the sweetest of onions at Castell'a Mare, grey mullet at Torre del Greco, red mullet at Granatiello, Lachrimae on the Monte di Somma, once known as Vesuvius. And watermelons and saveloys at Orta, Vernotico wine at Nola, torrone at Aversa, melons at Cardito, apricots at Arienzo, Provola cheeses at Acerra, cardoons at Giugliano, lampreys at Capua, olives at Gaeta, legumes at Venafro; and trout, wine, oil and game at Sora…"
At last, I understood.
"Do you perhaps mean to suggest, Sir, that the food which I am serving you does not meet with your approval?"
He stood up and looked at me with a hint of embarrassment.
"Er… to tell the truth, we eat nothing but soups here. But, that is not the point…" said he, stumbling in his search for words. "Well, in short, your mania for putting cinnamon in all your broths, sauces and soups will end up accomplishing the extermination which we were expecting from the plague!" And unexpectedly, he laughed out loud.
I was confused and humiliated. I begged him to lower his voice lest we be overheard by the other guests; but I was too late. From the chamber next door, Brenozzi had already heard Stilone's protest and was laughing unrestrainedly The echo spread to Padre Robleda's apartment, and in the end both of them leaned out of their windows. Stilone Priaso went on to open his door, caught up in the chorus of hilarity: I begged him to close it, but in vain. I was overwhelmed by a barrage of scornful jokes and mockery, and they laughed until they cried, all at the expense of my cooking. Only, it seemed, the charitable accompaniment of Devize's music rendered it all a little less unbearable. Even Padre Robleda struggled to suppress a guffaw.
None of them had yet confessed the truth to me, explained the Neapolitan, for they had learned from Cristofano of Pellegrino's awakening and were counting upon my master's swift return, besides which, these were the least of their cares during those days. The recent increase in my doses of cinnamon had, however, rendered the situation untenable. Here, Priaso broke off, seeing from my countenance how humiliated and offended I was. The other two closed their doors again. The Neapolitan put a hand on my shoulder.
"Come on, my boy, do not take it to heart: quarantine is not conducive to good manners."
I begged his pardon for having thus tormented him with my cinnamon, collected my little jars and took my leave. I was furious and unhappy but I decided for the time being not to show it.
I descended to the first floor, intending to knock on Devize's door. When, however, I got there, I hesitated.
From behind the door came the sound of still uncertain notes. He was tuning his instrument. Then he launched into a dance, perhaps a villanelle; and next, what I would today recognise without the slightest difficulty as a gavotte.
I resolved to knock at the next door, that of Pompeo Dulcibeni. Should the gentleman from Fermo be available for a massage, I would at the same time be able to enjoy the echoes of Devize's guitar.
Dulcibeni accepted the offer. He received me as always with an austere and weary manner, his voice mournful yet firm, his eyes glaucous yet perspicacious.
"Come in, dear boy. Put your bag down here."
He often called me thus, as one speaks to a servant. He was the guest at the Donzello of whom I stood most in awe. His tone, which was tranquil when speaking to inferiors, yet utterly lacking in warmth, seemed always on the point of betraying some impatient or scornful gesture which, however, never materialised; and this caused those approaching him to show exaggerated self-control in his presence and, in the end, to take refuge in silence. That, I thought, was why he remained the most solitary of all the guests. Never once, when I served meals, had he kept me back to converse with him. He did not seem troubled by solitude; quite the contrary. Yet, on his low forehead and ruddy cheeks, I noted a deep and bitter crease, and sensed an underlying torment, such as appears only in one burdened by lonely suffering. The one light note was his weakness for my master's good cooking, which alone drew a rare but genuine smile from him or some witty comment.
Who knows how much he too has suffered from my cinnamon, I thought, at once dismissing the conjecture.
Now, for the first time, I was about to spend an hour, or perhaps more, alone in his company, and I felt greatly troubled at the prospect.
I had opened my bag and taken out the jars which I would be using. Dulcibeni asked me what they contain
ed and how they were to be applied, and feigned polite interest in my explanations. I then asked him to uncover his back and sides and to sit astride a chair.
Having opened up the back of his black costume and removed his comical old-fashioned collar, I noticed that he had a long scar across his neck: so that, I thought, was why Dulcibeni never removed that antiquated item of apparel. He then sat as I had suggested and I began to spread the oils which Cristofano had shown me. The first few minutes passed in light banter. We both enjoyed the echo of Devize's notes: an allemande, then, perhaps, a gigue, a chaconne and a minuet en rondeau. I went over in my mind what Robleda had said about the Jansenist doctrines which Dulcibeni seemed to follow.
Suddenly, he asked me if he could stand up. He seemed to be in pain.
"Do you feel ill? Is the smell of the oil perhaps troubling you?"
"No, no, dear boy. I just want to take a pinch of snuff."
He turned the key of the big chest and pulled out three rather well-bound little books in vermilion leather with golden arabesques. Then he brought forth the snuff-box, which was well made, in inlaid cherry-wood. He opened it, took a pinch of powder, raised it to his nostrils and inhaled forcefully, two or three times. He remained for an instant as though in a state of suspense, then took a deep breath. He looked at me and his expression became rather more cordial. He seemed pacified. He asked with genuine concern after the health of the other guests at the inn. Then the conversation began to falter. Every now and then, he would sigh, closing his eyes and briefly stroking his white hair, which must once have been fair.
Looking at him, I wondered how much he knew about the story of his late companion. I could not rid my mind of the revelations concerning Mourai-Fouquet which I had just learned from Atto. I was tempted to put some vague question to him about the old Frenchman whom he had accompanied from Naples (perhaps without knowing his identity). And who knows, perhaps the two had met some time previously; perhaps they had even enjoyed a lengthy acquaintance, despite what Dulcibeni had claimed when speaking to the physician and to the Bargello's men. If that were the case, few indeed were my chances of gaining any confirmation from the lips of the Marchigiano. Therefore, after taking counsel with myself, I concluded that my best course would be to converse on some neutral subject so as to start up a conversation and induce him to talk for as long as possible, in the hope of gaining some useful clue from him; exactly as I had already done-although with scant success-with the other guests.
I therefore endeavoured to elicit Dulcibeni's opinion concerning some important occurrence, as one does when one wishes to converse with old men of whom one stands in awe. I asked him, with elaborate deference, what he thought of the siege of Vienna, where the fate of all Christendom hung in the balance, and whether he thought that the Emperor might in the end defeat the Turks.
"Emperor Leopold of Austria can defeat no one: he has fled," he replied drily and then fell silent, leaving it to be understood that the conversation was now closed.
I hoped, nevertheless, that he might express some further opinions, while struggling desperately within myself for some rejoinder whereby to salvage the dialogue. But no inspiration came to me, and so deep silence again descended between us.
I swiftly completed my task and took my leave of him. Dulcibeni remained silent. I was about to leave when there arose in my mind the desire to put another question to him: I could not resist the pressing urge to know whether he too disapproved as much of my cooking.
"No, dear boy, far from it," he replied. "Indeed, I'd say that you have a flair for it."
I thanked him, feeling encouraged, and was about to close the door behind me when I heard him add, as though speaking to himself in a strange whisper rising from the belly: "Were it not for your excremental brews and all that damned cinnamon. Pumilio! Booby of a scullion that you are!"
That was enough for me. Never had I felt so humiliated. Yet, what Dulcibeni thought of me was, I reflected, quite true. I could strive with all my might and main but it would not raise me one single inch in the eyes of others, not even, alas, those of Cloridia. Anger and pride flared up in me. So I, who aspired to so much (one day to become a gazetteer) was not even capable of raising my station from that of scullion to cook.
While I was thus groaning inwardly outside Dulcibeni's doorway, I thought I heard a sound of mumbling. I brought my ear closer the better to listen, and what was my surprise when I heard Dulcibeni conversing with someone else.
"Do you feel unwell? Does the smell of oil perhaps inconvenience you.?" the other voice asked solicitously.
I was troubled. Was that not the same question I had put to Dulcibeni only moments earlier? Whoever could have hidden in the chamber to listen? And why repeat my words now? But in those words, one detail shocked me: they were spoken by a woman's voice; and it was not Cloridia's.
There followed a few moments of silence.
"Emperor Leopold can defeat no one; he has fled!" Dulcibeni exclaimed suddenly.
That, he had also said to me! I continued to listen, suspended between astonishment and the fear of being discovered.
"You are unfair, you ought not…" replied the woman's voice timidly, in curiously weak, hoarse tones.
"Silence!" interrupted Dulcibeni. "If Europe is blown up, we shall have cause only for rejoicing."
"I hope that you are not serious."
"Listen, then," Dulcibeni resumed in a more conciliatory tone. "These lands of ours are, now, after a manner of speaking, like a great house: a house in which there dwells a single great family. But what will happen if the brothers become too numerous? And what will happen, too, if their wives are all sisters, and so their children all are cousins? They will be forever quarrelling, they will hate one another, each will malign the others. Sometimes, they will form alliances, but these will be too fragile. Their children will couple in an obscene orgy, and will in turn produce mad, weak, corrupted offspring. What is to be expected of so unfortunate a family?"
"I do not know. Perhaps someone… will succeed in pacifying them. And above all, the children will leave off marrying among themselves," the feminine voice responded uncertainly.
"Very well, if the Turk conquers Vienna," retorted Dulcibeni, "at least we shall at last have some new blood on the thrones of Europe. Obviously, after the old has flowed like rivers."
"Excuse me, but I do not understand," the woman ventured shyly.
"It is simple. By now, all the Christian kings are related to one another."
"What do you mean, all related?" asked the little voice.
"I understand. You need a few examples. Louis XIV the Most Christian King of France, is twice cousin to his wife Maria Teresa, the Infanta of Spain. Both their parents were in fact siblings. This was because the mother of the Sun King, Anne of Austria, was the sister of Maria Teresa's father, Philip IV King of Spain; while the Sun King's father, Louis XIII, was a brother of Maria Teresa's mother, Elisabeth of France, the first wife of Philip IV"
Dulcibeni paused for a few moments; I heard him taking his snuff box out from a nearby chest and mixing the contents carefully while he continued speaking.
"The respective parents-in-law of the King and Queen of France are, therefore, blood relations: their uncle and aunt. Now, I ask you, what effect will it have to be the nephew and niece of one's parents-in-law? Or, if you prefer, the son and daughter-in-law of one's uncle and aunt."
I could not restrain myself: I had to know who this woman was to whom Dulcibeni was speaking. How the deuce could she have entered the Donzello, despite the quarantine? And why was Dulcibeni addressing her with such passion?
I tried very gradually to open the door, which I had not completely closed when leaving. Now, there was a crack, and with bated breath, I put my eye to it. Dulcibeni was standing, leaning with his elbows on a large chest and fiddling with his snuff-box. Speaking, he directed his attention towards the wall on his right, where the mysterious guest must be. Unfortunately, my field of vision did not extend far
enough for me to distinguish this feminine presence. And if I were to open the door wider, I risked being discovered.
After forcefully taking several pinches of snuff, Dulcibeni became agitated, then began to swell up his chest, as though he were about to hold his breath.
"The King of England is Charles II Stuart," he resumed. "His father married Henrietta of France, a sister of Louis XIV's father. Therefore, the King of England is likewise cousin twice over both to the King of France and to his Spanish wife; and they, as you have seen, are doubly cousins to one another. And what about Holland? Henrietta of France, the mother of King Charles II, besides being the Sun King's paternal aunt, was also the maternal aunt of the young Dutch prince William of Orange. In fact, Mary, a sister of King Charles and his brother James, went to Holland as bride of William II of Orange, and from that marriage was born Prince William III who surprised the world six years ago by marrying James's first-born daughter, his first cousin. In other words, four sovereigns have mixed the same blood eight times."
He shook his snuff-box and brought it to his nose, breathing in frenziedly, as though he had long been deprived of tobacco. Then he resumed his harangue, his face grown livid and his voice, hoarse: "Another sister of Charles II wed his cousin, the brother of Louis XIV They, too, mixed the same blood."
He broke off, seized by a coughing fit. Leaning on the big chest, he brought a handkerchief to his mouth as though he were about to be sick.
"But let us go to Vienna," Dulcibeni resumed, with a trace of exertion in his voice. "The Bourbons of France and the Habsburgs of Spain are, respectively, four and six times cousins to the Habsburgs of Austria. The mother of the Emperor Leopold I of Austria is the sister of Louis XIV But she is also the sister of the father of his wife Maria Teresa, King Philip IV of Spain, and daughter of the sister of her husband's father, the late Emperor Ferdinand III. The sister of Leopold I married her maternal uncle, again, Philip IV of Spain. And Leopold I married his niece Margaret Teresa. So, the King of Spain is the uncle, brother-in-law and father-in-law of the Emperor of Austria. Thus, three families of sovereigns have mixed the same blood a thousand times over!"
