by Rita Monaldi
"Do you recall what we read?" asked Atto no sooner than I had entered his chamber. "According to Kircher, the pestilence is born, grows, becomes old and dies just like men. When it is about to die, it augments and reaches its greatest strength before expiring."
"Exactly as Cristofano said just now."
"Yes. And do you know what that means?"
"Perhaps that Bedfordi recovered on his own, or not thanks to the rondeau?" said I, hazarding a guess.
"You disappoint me, my boy. Do you really not understand? The plague in this hostelry was barely at its beginnings: it should have accomplished a massacre before losing its virulence. Instead, matters went otherwise. Not one of us others fell ill. And do you know what I think? Since Devize, compelled to keep to his chamber, began to play the rondeau ever more frequently, those notes, spreading throughout the inn, have preserved us from the infection."
"Do you honestly believe that it is thanks to that music that no one else among us fell victim to the pestilence?" I asked sceptically.
"It is surprising, 1 know. But think now: in all history, it has never sufficed, when faced with the spread of the plague, simply to withdraw alone to one's chamber. As for Cristofano's remedies to preserve us from the infection, forget it!" said the abbot with a laugh. "Besides, the facts speak for themselves: the doctor was in contact with Bedfordi every single day, after which, he visited all the others. Yet neither he nor any of us ever fell ill. How do you explain that?"
Indeed, I thought, if I was immune to the infection, one could not say as much of Cristofano.
"Not only that," Atto continued, "once Bedfordi himself was directly exposed to the notes of the rondeau, just when he was about to give up the ghost, he awoke and the distemper literally vanished."
"It is as though… Padre Kircher had discovered a secret which, in those already suffering from the plague, speeds up the natural cycle of the disease, inducing its extinction without having wrought any harm. Yet this is also a secret capable of preserving the healthy from the infection."
"Bravo, you have got it. The secretum vitae concealed in the rondeau functions precisely thus."
Bedfordi, concluded Atto, making himself at ease on his bed, was all but resuscitated when Devize played for him. The idea had come from Padre Robleda, persuaded of the health-giving magnetism of music. Initially, however, the French musician had played for a long time without anything happening.
"You will have noticed that, after Bedfordi's recovery, I stopped to speak to the doctor; well, he made it clear to me that only after Devize had begun to play the rondeau and had repeated it ad infinitum, did the Englishman show signs of life. I wondered: whatever is hidden in those blessed 'Barricades Mysterieuses'?"
"I too had wondered about that, Signor Atto: the melody must have mysterious powers."
"Exactly. As though in it Kircher had concealed a thaumaturgical secret, yet the content was one with the casket; so much so as to radiate its potent and health-giving effects to anyone who so much as listened to the rondeau. Now do you understand?"
I assented, with rather less than true conviction.
"But could we not find out more about this?" I tried to ask. "We could try to decrypt the rondeau. You understand music. I could attempt to borrow Devize's scores from him and from there we could work by trial and error; or perhaps we might even obtain something from Devize himself."
The abbot stopped me with a gesture.
"Do not imagine that he knows any more than we do," he retorted, smiling. "Besides, what does that all matter to us now? The power of music: there is the real secret. During these days and nights we have done nothing but rationalise: we wanted to understand everything and at all costs. Rather presumptuously, we meant to square the circle. And I was the first to behave thus:
Qual e 'l geometra che tutto s'affige per misurar lo cerchio, e non ritrova, pensando, quelprincipio ond'elli indige, tal era io a quella vista nova.* as the poet says."
"The words of Seigneur Luigi, your master?"
"These words, no. They were penned a few centuries ago by my divine countryman, who is now out of fashion. What I mean to tell you is simply that while we racked our brains, we neglected to use our hearts."
"Did we then misinterpret everything, Signor Atto?"
"No. All that we discovered, all our insights and our deductions, were perfectly correct; but incomplete."
"Meaning?"
"Of course, in that rondeau there is encrypted I know not what formula of Kircher's against the pestilence. That, however, is not all that Kircher had to say. The secretum vitae, the secret of life, is something more. And that cannot be expressed: you will find it neither in words nor in numbers, but in music. That, then, is Kircher's message."
Atto, still half-reclining, had leaned his head against the wall and was looking dreamily over, and far beyond, my head.
I was disappointed: Abbot Melani's explanation did not calm my curiosity.
"But is there no way of deciphering the melody of the Barricades Mysterieuses? Thus we would at last be able to read the secret formula which protects against the pestilence," I insisted.
"Forget it. We could spend centuries here, studying those pages without finding a single syllable. There remains to us only what we
As the geometer who tries all ways he can
To square the circle, yet cannot,
By thinking, find out the principle involved,
So was I, when faced with that new sight.
— Dante Paradiso. (Translator's note.)
have seen and heard today: simply upon hearing it, that rondeau protects against the plague. That should suffice for us. In what manner it brings this about, it is not, however, given to us to understand: '"High fantasy here lost its power'," intoned the abbot, again quoting the poet, his countryman, and concluding: "That madman Athanasius Kircher was a great man of science and of the Faith, and with his rondeau, he gave us a great lesson in humility. Never forget that, my boy."
Resting on my couch, I awaited sleep, wearied by the hurricane of revelations and surprises. I was a prey to endless cogitations and stirrings of the soul. Only at the close of my conversation with Atto had I understood the double and inextricable magic of that rondeau, it was no accident if the "Barricades Mysterieuses" bore that name; and there was indeed no sense in deciphering them. Like Kircher, Abbot Melani had taught me a noble lesson: the profession of humility by a man in whom neither pride nor mistrust were in any way lacking. I mused vaguely for a long time yet upon the mystery of the "Barricades", while striving in vain to hum its touching melody.
I had also been touched by the paternal tone in which Atto had called me "my boy". I was lulled by that thought, so much so that only when I was on the point of falling asleep did I recollect that, for all his fine words and reassurances, he had not yet explained to me how come he had, the day before, pronounced the words " barricades mysterieuses", in his sleep.
I spent I know not how many hours resting in my little chamber. On my awakening, a sovereign silence reigned over the Donzello. The hostelry, once the uproar had died down, seemed to have fallen into lethargy: I pricked up my ears, yet I could hear neither Devize's playing nor Brenozzi's importunate ramblings. Nor had Cristofano come to look for me.
It was still early to prepare supper, yet I resolved to descend to the kitchen: as I had already done at luncheon, only even more so, I desired adequately to celebrate the good news of Bedfordi's recovery and the return to the Donzello of the hope of freedom. I would prepare tasty little redwings, or thrushes, fresh as could be. On the stairs, I met Cristofano, whom I asked for news of the Englishman.
"He is well, very well," said he, contentedly. "He is only in pain… er… because of the cutting of the tokens," he added, with a hint of embarrassment.
"I had in mind to cook redwings for dinner. Do you think that would also be suitable for Bedfordi?"
The doctor smacked his lips: "More than suitable: the flesh of thrushes is excellent in savo
ur, both substantial and nutritious, easily digested and good also for convalescents and for all those whose constitution is debilitated. They are now at their best. In winter, however, they arrive from the mountains of Spoleto and Terni, and are very fat, for they have during that season fed on myrtle and juniper berries. When they have eaten myrtle berries, they are, moreover, excellent for curing dysentery. But if you really do intend to cook them," said he with a touch of hungry impatience, "you would do well to make haste: the preparation takes time."
Once on the ground floor, I found that the other guests had descended and were all present, some engaged in conversation, some playing cards, others wandering freely. No one seemed willing to return to those chambers in which they had all feared they might die of the pestilence.
My Cloridia came to me with festive mien: "We are alive again!" she exclaimed happily. "Only Pompeo Dulcibeni is missing, it seems to me," and she looked at me questioningly.
At once, I felt dejected: here, once again, Cloridia was showing her interest in the elderly gentleman from the Marches.
"In truth, Abbot Melani is absent, too," said I, turning my back on her ostentatiously and rushing down to the cellars in order to choose all that I would be needing.
The dinner that followed was the most delicious since that of the cows' teats and-pardon my immodesty-was deservedly received with great and general applause. As I had already seen my master do, I prepared the redwings with the freest and most honest invention. Some, I prepared rolled in breadcrumbs and lightly fried in minced bacon with slices of ham, then covered with broccoli tips cooked in good fat and flavoured with lemon; others, I roasted, after lighting a good blaze, interspersed with sausages and slices of oranges and lemons; or I boiled them with salted stuffing, covered with small fennel or lettuce leaves bound with egg, serving them in nets as roulades or bunched with herbs, and a sauce of spiced mostacciolo cake.
Then, when cooking them, I made many alio spiedo (on skewers), incrosta (in pastry), or interlarded with slices of bacon and bay leaves, anointed with good oil and sprinkled with breadcrumbs. Nor did I fail to cook the redwings as Pellegrino best knew how to: stuffed with bacon and ham slices, sprinkled with cloves and served in a royal sauce; and finally, served in roulades, netted or in marrow leaves. Some other, rather bigger, birds I parboiled, then halved and fried. The whole dish I served with fried green vegetables, simply lacquered with sugar and lemon juice, without cinnamon.
By the time I completed my cooking, I was surrounded by the guests' joyous faces, as they hastened to serve themselves and to share the various dishes. Cloridia, to my surprise, served me my own portion; I had arranged for her a generous serving which I had not omitted to garnish deliciously with parsley and a slice of lemon. My blush was of the deepest crimson, but she did not give me time to breathe a word and with a smile joined the others at table.
In the meanwhile, Abbot Melani, too, had come downstairs. Dulcibeni, however, was not to be seen. I went to knock on his door and ask him whether he wished to dine. Even had I wished to obtain from him some indication of his future intentions, I would have had no means of doing so. He said from behind the door that he was not at all hungry, nor did he desire to talk with anyone. Rather than raise his suspicions, I did not insist. As I was leaving, I heard a by now familiar sound within, a sort of rapid, whistling sniff. Dulcibeni was again at his snuffbox.
Night the Ninth
Between the 19th and 20th September, 1683
"Urgentitious, perditious and sacrilegious," assured Ugonio, in a voice shaking unaccustomedly with excitement.
"Sacrilegious, what do you mean by that?" asked Abbot Melani.
"Gfrrrlubh," explained Ciacconio, devoutly crossing himself.
"Whene'er he verbalises a sacral mutter, or one that how or whensoever implacates a holy ecclesiasticon, or holy saintliness, or one eminentitious-for by fulfilling one's obligations the Christian's jubilations are increased-Ciacconio duefully denominates him with condescending, lucent and remanent respectuosity."
Atto and I looked at one another in perplexity. The corpisantari seemed unusually agitated and were trying to explain something to us concerning a personage of the Curia, or something of the sort, for whom they appeared to feel no little reverential fear.
Anxious to know the outcome of Ciacconio's incursion into the house of Tiracorda, Atto and I had found them in the Archives, busy as ever with their disgusting pile of bones and filth. According the dignity of language to Ciacconio's grunts, Ugonio had at once put us on guard: in the house of Dulcibeni's physician friend, something dangerous was about to take place, which it was urgent to circumvent and which concerned a high-ranking personage, perhaps a prelate, whose identity was, however, as yet unclear.
"First of all, tell me: how did you gain entry to Tiracorda's house?"
"Gfrrrlubh," replied Ciacconio with a sly smile.
"He entrified via the chimblypipe," explained Ugonio.
"Up the chimney? So that is why he was not even interested to know anything about the windows. But he will have made himself filthy… Excuse me, forget that I said that," said Atto, remembering that filth was the natural element of the two corpisantari.
Ciacconio had managed to climb without too much difficulty into the chimney of the kitchen on the ground floor. Thence, following the sound of voices, he had succeeded in tracing Tiracorda and Dulcibeni to the study, where they were intent on conversing on matters incomprehensible to him.
"They parleyfied argumancies theoristical, and enigmifications, perhaps even thingamies necromaniacal."
"Gfrrrlubh," confirmed Ciacconio, nodding in confirmation, visibly disquieted.
"No, no, have no fear," interrupted Atto with a smile, "those were no more than riddles."
Ciacconio had overheard the enigmas with which Tiracorda enjoyed distracting himself with Dulcibeni and had taken them for obscure cabalistic rituals.
"In parleyfying, the doctorer intimidated that, perduring the nocturn, he would," added Ugonio, "ascend unto Monte Cavallo, there to therapise the sacrosanctified personage."
"I see. Tonight he will go to Monte Cavallo, in other words, to the papal palace, in order to treat that person, that exceedingly important prelate," Atto interpreted, looking at me with a significant expression.
"And then?"
"Then they ingurgitated alcohols magnomcumgaudio, and into the arms of Murphyus the doctorer fell."
Dulcibeni had again brought with him the little liqueur to which the doctor was so partial and with it had put him to sleep.
Here began the most important part of Ciacconio's narration. Hardly had Tiracorda entered the world of dreams than Dulcibeni took from a cupboard a vase decorated with strange designs, on the sides of which were various holes to let in the air. From his pocket, he had then extracted a little phial from which he had poured into Tiracorda's vase a few drops of liquid. Atto and I looked at one another in alarm.
"While effectifying this outpouring, he demurmured: '"For her…'"
" 'For her'… How interesting. And then?"
"Then thereupon did the furiosa represent herself."
"The fury?" we both asked in unison.
The good wife Paradisa had burst into the study, where she had surprised her spouse in thrall to the fumes of Bacchus, and Dulcibeni in possession of the abhorred alcoholic potion.
"She greatly disgorgified herself, in manner most wrathful and cholerific," explained Ugonio.
From what we understood, Paradisa had begun to shower her husband with insults and repeatedly to hurl at him the beakers which had served for their toasts, together with the physician's instruments and whatever came to hand. In order to escape from all those projectiles, Tiracorda had been compelled to take refuge under the table while Dulcibeni had hastily returned to its place the decorated vase into which he had poured those drops of mysterious liquid.
"Exorbitrageous female: most inappropriate for the doctorer, who therapises in order to achieve more benefice than
malefice," pronounced Ugonio, shaking his head, while Ciacconio nodded in concerned agreement.
It was, however, at that very moment that Ciacconio's mission suffered a setback. While Paradisa was venting her hatred for wine and grappa upon the defenceless Tiracorda, and Dulcibeni remained quietly in a corner, waiting for the storm to pass, Ciacconio seized the opportunity to satisfy his baser instincts. Already, before the woman's arrival, he had espied upon a shelf an object to his taste.
"Gfrrrlubh," he gurgled complacently, producing from his overcoat and showing us, polished and shining, a magnificent skull, complete with the lower jaw, which Tiracorda had probably used when teaching his students.
While Paradisa's raging grew incandescent, Ciacconio had crept into the study on all fours, making his way around the table under which Tiracorda had hidden, and had managed to purloin the skull without being seen. As chance would have it, a large candlestick which Paradisa had hurled at Tiracorda rebounded and struck Ciacconio. Offended and in pain, the corpisantaro leapt onto the table and met fire with fire, uttering as a war-cry the one and only sound of which his mouth was capable.
Upon the unexpected sight of that repulsive and deformed being, who was, moreover, threatening her with her own candlestick, Paradisa screeched at the very top of her voice. Dulcibeni remained where he stood, as though petrified, and Tiracorda flattened himself even more under the table.
Hearing Paradisa's cries, the servant girls came rushing down from the floor above, just in time to encounter Ciacconio who was hurrying towards the stairs down to the kitchen. The corpisantaro, finding himself faced with three fresh young damsels, could not resist the temptation to lay his clutches upon the one nearest to him.
The poor girl, lasciviously groped by the monster just where her flesh was softest and plumpest, instantly lost her senses; the second maid exploded into hysterical screams, whilst the third ran back to the second floor as fast as her legs could carry her.
