by Rita Monaldi
I completed my reading with my heart swollen with anxiety and sorrow. All that I had just learned from my clandestine perusal of Atto's papers threw much light on Maria Mancini's letter and the reply from Atto which I had read the day before. The great diplomatic agitation around the Spanish succession was not just so much febrile preparation for future confrontations between the great powers but a war already begun. It was clear that a sovereign in that state might die from one moment to the next. Of the mysterious Countess of S., however, I found no more trace. I would have to take my search further: there was still much correspondence to be read.
I looked up. Outside the window, Atto and Buvat had for some time disappeared over the horizon. I noticed walking down the avenue a lady who showed every sign of advanced pregnancy. This must be the Princess of Forano, that Teresa Strozzi whose health Cloridia had been called to watch over that evening. I dedicated a sweet and rapid thought to my spouse, whom I would soon be seeing again.
It was not prudent to remain any longer in Atto's lodgings; I might have been found out by him, and in any case my prolonged absence from work would sooner or later be noticed. It was better that I should be seen by Don Paschatio, who had, alas, ordered me to be a torchbearer at dinner that evening too. Fortunately, I was exempted from serving at table.
While I carefully returned the letters to their place, a mass of thoughts accumulated in my poor tired head. As ever, I feared that head was too small for great questions of state and too big for the minutiae of diplomacy.
It was clear from her letters that the Connestabilessa habitually resided at the Spanish court; but what could ever have brought her there? The report by Madama the Connestabilessa (who obviously had the most confidential sources at that court) presented a cruel and apocalyptic picture which contrasted singularly with the tender, and in truth somewhat daring words which Atto dedicated to her at the end of the letter. The correspondence was a bizarre chimera, a cross between love and politics, gallantry and diplomacy. Knowing Abbot Melani, at least two of those ways — sentiment and conspiracy — must, however, be leading up to a practical goal. The way of the heart led to the imminent encounter, after thirty years' separation, between Atto and Maria. The way of politics, however, led to a still unknown objective.
If one were to judge by his words, Melani was interested only in the forthcoming conclave; from what I read in those letters, however, the succession to the Spanish throne was a far more burning question. Atto must have some secret project, said I to myself; secret enough, at least, not to wish to reveal it to me.
Yet I too had eyes and ears; I too knew how to snatch precious details, revealing gossip, murmuring and betrayals from the eminences and princes who were then visiting the Villa Spada. Of course, Atto knew how to interpret these with a skill a thousand times greater than my own. Inured to all the dastardy and cunning intrigues of state, a true artist in behind-the-scenes activity, a handful of pebbles was enough to enable him to compose an entire coloured mosaic. I, however, had relative youth on my side. Was it not I who had snatched from the lips of Cardinal Spinola di Santa Cecilia the words which had put us on the trail of the secret meeting between Spada, Albani and the other Spinola?
My overarching intention, however, was to favour Cardinal Spada my master, even if that meant at the same time helping the reckless Abbot Melani. He, a French subject, was acting on behalf of the King of France. I, in the service of a magnanimous cardinal of the Holy Roman Church, would spy in the name of fidelity and gratitude.
Imprudently, I failed to take into account the fact that he had received a mandate from his lord, while I had not.
While exercised by these cogitations, I had by now rejoined the servant who was distributing the Turkish costumes. Now it was time to transform myself into a human candelabrum to illuminate the table of all those gentlemen and eminences and to satisfy my thirst for knowledge of the highest society, drinking at the freshest of fountains: the court of Rome, that school excelling in all forms of dissimulation and guile. I hoped only that to such intellectual refinement there should not, as on the evening before, be added Melani's expediencies, which could cost me dear. Fortunately, that evening's dinner had been announced by the Steward as being a trifle more modest than the inaugural one the evening before: the nuptials were due on the next day and stomachs were until then to be sheltered from any risks of indigestion that might affect participation in and enjoyment of the magnificent nuptial banquet.
While I was getting dressed, I caught sight of my Cloridia moving briskly towards the pergola, resplendent in the fine festive gown which she had been given for her evening in the gardens, keeping vigilant watch over the Princess of Forano. Knowing her to be near at hand gave me a feeling of great peace and serenity. She too saw me and approached briefly to tell me that the Princess did not feel like attending the dinner and was resting under the pergola.
"The little ones?" I asked, since in the event of lying in, Cloridia would need the assistance of our two daughters.
"They are at home. I do not want them wandering about in these parts, at least, not during the festivities. In case of need, I shall send for them."
I mentioned that the Connestabilessa would yet again not be arriving, as well as reporting the contents of the letter which I had just read.
"I already have some information for you," said she, "but now there's no time. Let us meet here this evening."
She kissed my forehead and rushed off, leaving me a prey to curiosity about the news which she had in so short a time already gleaned from her women, as well as full of that admiration which her estimable promptness of spirit always aroused in me.
"… And 'tis most curious, if we come to think of it, that the Jubilee should for the first time have been opened by one pope, yet may, God forbid, be closed by another," slurred Cardinal Moriggia with his mouth full of pike cooked in apple juice, "which is what would happen if the Holy Father were to pass to a better life and a successor be elected before the end of the year."
"Most sad, you must mean, Eminence, most sad," retorted Monsignor d'Aste, Apostolic Commissioner for Arms, choking on his poached turkey alla Suizzera. "This turkey is really excellent; how was it cooked?"
"Larded with tripe, Your Excellency, pricked with cloves and cinnamon, cooked in wine and water, garnished with peaches in syrup, carved and interspersed with slices of lemon and covered with toasted eggs and sugar," the Steward hastened to explain to d'Aste, murmuring the recipe in his ear.
"This evening our greedy little Straccetto is making so bold as to correct those higher than he," whispered Prince Borghese ironically, using the nickname expressly chosen by the Pope who, as Atto had told me, had called D'Aste Monsignor Straccetto (or "little rag") because of his minuscule and unattractive form.
"Most sad, goodness knows, indeed most sad: that is, I think, just what I said," Moriggia defended himself, blushing as he gargled with a fine glass of red wine to clear his throat and free himself of his verbal embarrassment.
"Boor," someone commented without revealing himself, having evidently drunk too much.
Moriggia turned sharply but could not manage to find out who was so rudely insulting him.
"The fried crab is excellent," said D'Aste, trying to change the subject.
"Oh, exquisite," agreed Moriggia.
"Boor," came the insult once again, without anyone being able to identify who had spoken this time either.
"How did the Holy Father's visit to the hospice for poor orphans at San Michele go?" asked Cardinal Moriggia with skilfully simulated interest, in an attempt at distracting attention.
"Oh, magnificently, there was a great crowd and many pious persons who wished to kiss his feet," replied Durazzo.
"Incidentally, the expeditors of the Datary's office have been granted an indult to obtain remission of their sins by visiting the four basilicas once on the same day during the Jubilee."
"Quite right too! Even the prisoners and the infirm enjoy special preroga
tives," someone commented from the end of the table.
"A holy and enlightened decision: poor expeditors of the Datary, their condition deserves to be taken into account too," approved Moriggia in turn.
"Boor."
This time, two or three guests turned around to see who dared aim such epithets at a member of the Sacred College. But the flow of conversation continued.
"'Tis a truly extraordinary Jubilee. Never has there been in Rome an atmosphere of such Christian fervour. And never, I'd say, have so many pilgrims been seen; not even on the glorious Jubilee of Pope Clement X. Is it not true, Your Eminence?" said Durazzo, turning to Cardinal Carpegna, who had personally taken part in the prodigious Jubilee celebrations a quarter of a century earlier.
The Carpegna family was among other things related to the Spada, which on that evening conferred even greater attention upon his every word.
"Oh, that was an extraordinary Jubilee, yes, indeed it was," muttered the venerable Cardinal Carpegna, rather bent over his dish and with his mouth full, somewhat befuddled by his great age.
"Tell us, tell us about it, Your Eminence, tell us of some memory that is particularly dear to you," some guests encouraged him.
"Well, well, I remember, for example… Yes, I recall how in the church of Gesu a great machine was erected by Mariani for the adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament, and this drew great multitudes of the people. The apparatus, which was, believe me, most beautiful, represented the triumph of the Eucharistic Lamb among the symbols of the New Testament and the Apocalypse, with a vision of the Evangelist John when he was in reclusion on the isle of Patmos. Under the watchful eyes of the Eternal Father, enveloped in a thousand clouds full of celestial spirits and splendours, seven angels were to be seen with seven trumpets; then one saw a divine Lamb holding a book which represented the vision of the Apocalypse, which was moreover sent to John, and to us, by God's love for mankind…"
"True!" approved Durazzo.
"Such holy words!" echoed Monsignor D'Aste.
"Praise be to our Lord Jesus Christ," said they all (except those whose mouths were too full of the fried trout that had just been served), crossing themselves (except those whose hands were too involved with glasses of wine, knives and tridents for eating fish).
"There were visions of angelic choirs," continued Carpegna with a somewhat vacant expression, "effigies of the figures symbolising the Four Evangelists, namely the Lion, the Eagle, the Ox and the Man. I remember that the breast of the Lamb was all bloodstained and 'midst silver and golden rays of light his heart opened to display the Holy Eucharist which indeed issues only from God's love for mankind."
"Good, bravo!" approved his neighbours at table.
"But this year's Jubilee too will stand as an example for the centuries to come," said Negroni pompously.
"Oh yes, indubitably: pilgrims keep arriving from all parts of Europe. 'Tis so true that the pure, disinterested work of Holy Mother Church is more powerful than any force on earth."
"Apropos, how is this Jubilee going?" Baron Scarlatti asked Prince Borghese almost inaudibly.
"It could hardly be worse," whispered the other. "There has been a tremendous fall in the number of pilgrims. The Pope is most concerned. Not a penny is reaching the coffers."
Dinner was drawing to a close. Between one yawn and the next, eminences, princes, barons and monsignors were taking leave of one another, moving slowly towards the avenue leading to the main gate and their carriages. In a humbler procession, their secretaries, attendants, retainers, servants and other members of their retinue also moved away from the nearby table set aside for them, and from their more modest fare, in order to escort their illustrious patrons. As the table emptied, we torchbearers were able at last to relax our back and abdominal muscles, which had been so tense all evening long.
No one knew it, but when at long last I removed the ridiculous Ottoman turban and placed my smoking torch on the ground, it was I who was most breathless, not from fatigue but shock.
I had seen him at once and had realised what he was about to get up to. When he had gone on to call Cardinal Moriggia a boor three times over, I was quite sure that he would be most cruelly punished. Instead, his foolishness had been equalled only by his good fortune, and in the dim light of the dinner party, no one had caught sight of him. I moved away from the other servants, towards the outer wall of the villa. Then I heard him call me, with his usual courtesy.
"Boor!"
"As far as I am concerned, 'tis you who are the boor," I replied, speaking in the direction of the part of the garden from which the voice seemed to be coming.
"Dona nobis panem cotidianum," came Caesar Augustus's response from the dark.
He had been flying around throughout dinner above the canopy that covered the table. He surely hoped to get his talons into some fine piece of the delicacies being served, but he must then have realised that it would be impossible to do so without being seen. I had broken into a cold sweat every time that, for the pure pleasure of giving offence, he had insulted Cardinal Moriggia. Yet no one could have imagined that mocking little voice belonged to Caesar Augustus, for the simple reason that, as I have already mentioned, the parrot spoke to no one except myself and everyone regarded him as being dumb.
I advanced a little further onto the meadow, hoping that no one would come seeking me for some last-minute chore.
"Your little play could hardly have been in worse taste," I reproved him, chattering into the darkness. "Next time, they'll wring your neck and make a roast of you. Did you see the dish of quails they served up with the third course? Well, that's what you'll be reduced to."
I heard his wings beating in the dark and then a fluttering of feathers grazed my ear. He landed on a bush a few inches from me. Now at last I could see him, a white feathered phantom with a yellow plume proudly rising from his forehead, almost like some mad flag fluttering the papal colours.
I sat down on the fresh, damp grass, still somewhat over-excited and worn out by those hours spent as a torchbearer. Caesar Augustus stared at me with the usual very obvious expression of one imploring a little food, for pity's sake.
"Et remitte nobis debita nostra," he insisted, again reciting the Lord's Prayer, which he would drag into service in the most woeful tones every time that he was hungry.
"You have eaten perfectly well today, this is sheer greed," said I, cutting him short.
"Clink-clonk, tink," said the diabolical creature, imitating with singular precision the clatter of cutlery on plates, and the joyful clinking of glasses. That was only the latest of his provocations.
"I have had enough of you, now I am going to bed, and I recommend that you do…"
"To whom are you talking, my boy?"
Atto Melani had joined me.
I needed plenty of persuasion to explain to the Abbot the bizarre nature of the animal with whom he had surprised me in conversation. All the more so, as Caesar Augustus had fled into the shadows the moment that he caught sight of Abbot Melani and there was no way in which he could be persuaded to make an appearance.
It was no easy task to persuade Atto that I was not mad, nor was I talking to myself, but that there was a parrot hidden in the dark with which it was possible to communicate, although in the contorted and anomalous manner which was his preference. At the end of my conversation, however, Caesar Augustus, who must have been immobile all this time, watching Atto from the shadows with that mixture of mistrust and curiosity which I knew so well in him whenever he caught sight of a stranger, remained as mute as a fish.
"It must be as you say, my boy, but it seems to me that the creature has no intention of opening its mouth. Eh Caesar Augustus, are you there? What a pompous name! Cra-cra-cra! Come, come on out. Did you really call Moriggia a boor?"
Silence.
"Eh, you old crow, 'tis you I'm addressing. Out with you! Have you nothing to say for yourself?"
The fowl's beak remained sealed, nor were we vouchsafed the honour of seeing h
im appear.
"Well, when he deigns to show himself and puts on all those fantastic shows of which you have told me, give me a whistle and I'll fly straight to you, ha," sniggered Atto. "But now, let us get down to serious business. I have a couple of things to tell you for tomorrow, before sleep gets the better of…"
"Puella”
Atto looked at me in shock.
"Did you say something?" he asked.
I pointed into the darkness, in the direction of Caesar Augustus, without daring to confess openly that it was he who had offended Atto, calling him by the most insulting name possible for a castrato: puella, or, in Latin, little girl. I remained speechless: it was the first time that the parrot had uttered a word in the presence of others. Despite the insult proffered, I'd have said that Melani was honoured.
"'Tis absurd. I have seen and heard other parrots, all of them excellent. But this one sounded just…"
"… Like talking to a person of flesh and blood, as I've already told you. This time he spoke with the timbre of an old man. But if only you knew how he can imitate women's voices, children crying — not to mention sneezes and coughing."
"Signor Abbot!"
This time, it was a real human voice that was calling for our attention.
"Signor Abbot, are you there? I have been looking for you for over half an hour!"
It was Buvat who, gasping and panting, was searching for his master in the semi-darkness of the garden.
"Signor Abbot, you must come up at once. Your apartment… I think that someone has entered without your permission, while you were dining, and has… We have had thieves!"
"Does anyone else know of this?" asked Atto as we opened the door of his apartment, immersed in darkness.
"No one but yourselves; what's more, your orders…"
