Secretum am-2 Read online

  Secretum

  ( Atto Melani - 2 )

  Rita Monaldi

  Francesco Sorti

  Rita Monaldi, Francesco Sorti

  Secretum

  Everything on this earth is a masquerade, but God has determined that the comedy be played in this manner.

  Erasmus of Rotterdam, In Praise of Folly

  Constantia, 14th February 2041

  To His Excellency Msgr AlessioTanari

  Secretary of the Congregation for the Causes of Saints Vatican City

  Dearest Alessio,

  A year has passed since I last wrote to you. You never replied.

  A few months ago, I was suddenly transferred (but that you perhaps already know) to Romania. I am one of a handful of priests to be found in Constantia, a small town on the Black Sea.

  Here, the word "poverty" takes on that relentless, irrevocable character that it once had in our part of the world. Dreary, decrepit houses; ragged children playing in dirty, nameless streets; women with tired faces blankly staring from the windows of horrendous blocks of flats; the legacy of real socialism, bare and dilapidated: wherever one turns, greyness and wretchedness.

  This is the city, this is the land to which I was sent a few months ago. I am called here to carry out my pastoral mission, nor shall I fail in my duties. The misery of this country will not distract me from them, nor will the sadness which pervades every inch of it.

  As you well know, the place from which I came was very different. Until a few months ago, I was Bishop of Como, the gay lakeside city which inspired the immortal prose of Manzoni; that ancient pearl of opulent Lombardy, laden with noble memories, with its characteristic old town, its businessmen, its captains of the fashion industry, its footballers and its prosperous silk manufacturers.

  I shall not, however, be deterred from my mission by this sudden, unexpected change. I have been told that I am needed here in Constantia, that my vocation can, more than any other, respond to the spiritual needs of this land, that the transfer from Italy (with only two weeks' notice) should not be taken as a demotion, let alone a punishment.

  When first I was apprised of the news, I expressed no few doubts (and, let me add, no little surprise), for never in the past had I exercised my pastoral duties outside Italy, apart from a few months of training in France, in the now far-off years of my youth.

  While I considered my position as Bishop of Como to be the best possible crowning of my career, and despite my advanced age, I would gladly have accepted a transfer to a new, distant, diocese: in France, in Spain (countries where the language is not unfamiliar to me) or even in Latin America.

  It would still, of course, have been an anomaly, for bishops are rarely transferred to distant lands from one day to the next, unless there are grave stains on their career. This was, as you know, certainly not the case with me, and yet — precisely because of the abrupt and unprecedented character of my removal — many good Catholics in Como were understandably misled into feeling themselves entitled to suspect such a thing.

  I would nevertheless have welcomed such a decision as one welcomes the will of God, unreservedly and uncomplainingly. Instead, it was decided to send me here to Romania, a land of which I know nothing, neither the language nor the traditions, neither the history nor the current needs. I find myself here straining my old limbs in vain attempts to play football with the local lads in the church precincts and to grasp some meaning from their loquacious speech.

  My soul is beset — pardon the confession — by a subtle yet incessant torment. This derives, not from my destiny (which the Lord has so willed and which I gratefully and willingly accept) but from the mysterious circumstances which determined it: circumstances which I now want to clarify with you.

  1 last wrote to you a year ago, to bring an unusually delicate affair to your attention. At the time, the process of canonisation of the Blessed Innocent XI Odescalchi was forging ahead. Reigning from 1676 until 1689, this pontiff of glorious memory promoted and sustained the Christian armies in their battle against the Turks at Vienna in 1683, when the followers of Mahomet were at last driven from Europe. Since Pope Innocent XI came from Como, the honour fell to me of instructing the cause of canonisation, one which was close to the Holy Father's heart; the clamorous and historic defeat of Islam had in fact taken place on 12th September 1683 when, taking account of the time lag, it was still 11th September in New York. Now, some forty years after the tragic assault by Islamic terrorists on the Twin Towers in New York on 11th September 2001, the coincidence between the two dates had not escaped the attention of our well-beloved pontiff, who therefore wished to proclaim Innocent XI — the anti-Islamic pope — a saint, on a date to coincide precisely with the two anniversaries, as a gesture of reaffirmation of Christian values and of the abyss that separates Europe and the West as a whole from the ideals of the Koran.

  It was, then, on completion of my assignment that I sent you that text — do you remember? It had been typed by two old friends of mine, Rita and Francesco, with whom I had lost touch years previously. It revealed a long series of circumstances which blacken the record of the Blessed Innocent. The latter had during his pontificate acted in pursuit of crass personal interests. While he had unquestionably made himself the Lord's instrument when inciting the Christian princes to take up arms against the Turk, his covetousness had on other occasions led him to commit grave offences against Christian morality and to cause irreparable damage to the Catholic religion in Europe.

  At that juncture, I asked you (as you will recall) to submit the matter to His Holiness, so that he personally could decide whether to pass over the matter in silence or — as I hoped — to give the imprimatur and order its publication, thus making the truth available to all.

  I did honestly expect at least a note of acknowledgment. I thought that, quite apart from the grave matters of which it was my duty to apprise you, you would, when all was said and done, be glad to hear from your old tutor at the seminary. I was well aware that the reply would take time, perhaps a very long time, given the gravity of the revelations which I was bringing to the attention of His Holiness. I did, however, imagine that you would, as is normal practice, at least respond with a card.

  Instead, not a word. For months, I received neither a written communication nor a telephone call, despite the fact that the outcome of the process depended upon the reply which I awaited. I was mindful of His Holiness's need to reflect, to evaluate, to weigh up all the issues and perhaps, in all confidentiality, to consult expert opinion. I was resigned to waiting patiently; also because, being sworn to secrecy and to protecting the honour of the Blessed, I could reveal what I had discovered to no one but yourself and the Holy Father.

  Then, one day I saw it in a Milan bookshop, among a thousand others: the book which bore the names of my two friends.

  When at last I opened it, my fears were confirmed: it was that very book. How was this possible? Whoever could have arranged its publication? Soon I said to myself that publication could only have been ordered by our pontiff in person. Perhaps the imprimatur which I had hoped the Pope would deliver had at length been handed down, definitively and authoritatively requiring publication of Rita and Francesco's text.

  Clearly, the process of Pope Innocent XI's canonisation was now blocked once and for all. Only, why had I not been informed? Why had I received no word of this, not even after publication, and in particular why had I heard nothing from you, Alessio?

  I was on the point of writing to you again when one day, in the early morning, I received a communication.

  I recall it all unusually clearly, as though it were today. My secretary came to find me when I was about to enter my study, bearing an envelope. Opening it in the dar
k corridor, I could just make out the papal keys printed in relief on the envelope; and then the card which it contained was in my hands.

  I was invited for an interview. I was struck above all by the extremely short notice of the time indicated on the card: only two days later and, what is more, on a Sunday. But that was as nothing compared to the hour of the summons (six in the morning) and the identity of the person who was inviting me to confer with him: Monsignor Jaime Rubellas, the Vatican Secretary of State.

  The meeting with Cardinal Rubellas could not have been more courteous. He began by inquiring after my health, about the exigencies of my diocese and the situation with regard to vocations. He then asked me discreetly how the process of canonisation of Innocent XI was progressing. Shocked, I asked him whether he was not aware of the book's publication. He did not reply, but looked at me as though I were defying him.

  It was then that he told me how badly I was needed here in Constantia, and he spoke of the new frontiers of the Church today and of the shortcomings in the care of souls in Romania.

  The amiability with which the Secretary of State spoke of my transfer almost caused me to lose sight, during our meeting, of why he in person should be announcing all this to me; why I had been summoned in such an unusual manner, almost as though everything had to be done far from prying eyes; and finally, of how long my absence from Italy might last.

  Closing the interview, Monsignor Rubellas asked me quite unexpectedly to maintain the strictest confidentiality about our talk and its content.

  All the questions which I did not ask myself that morning keep raising their heads here in Constantia, every evening when I patiently practise my Romanian, a strange language in which nouns come before articles.

  Soon after my arrival, I learned that under the Roman Empire, of which it was part for a very long time, Constantia had been called Tomi. Then, glancing at a map of the region, I noticed the presence nearby of a locality by the strange name of Ovidiu.

  It was then that alarm bells rang in my head. I quickly consulted my manual of Latin literature: my memory had not betrayed me. When Constantia was called Tomi, it was here that the Emperor Caesar Augustus had the famous poet Ovid exiled; officially on the grounds that he had written licentious poems, but in reality because he was suspected of having become acquainted with far too many of the secrets of the imperial household. For ten long years, Augustus turned a deaf ear to his appeals, until Ovid died. Without ever again setting eyes on Rome.

  Now I know, dear Alessio, how the trust which I placed in you a year ago has been repaid. My banishment to Tomi, the place of exile for "literary crimes", has opened my eyes to that. Not only did the publication of my two friends' text not originate in the Holy See but it fell upon you all like lightning from a cloudless sky. And you all believed that I was behind this, that it was I who had arranged for this publication. That is why you had me banished here.

  But you are mistaken. Like yourselves, I am completely ignorant of how that book came to be published; the Lord, quem nullum latet secretum, "who knows all secrets" — as they recite in the Orthodox churches in these parts — also uses for His ends those who act against Him.

  If you have taken a glance at the folder annexed to this letter, you will already know what it is: yet another typescript by Rita and Francesco. This too is perhaps an historical document, perhaps a novel. You may amuse yourself trying to discover which is the case by referring to the documentary evidence I received, annexed to the text, and which I am also sending you.

  Obviously, you will be wondering when I received this typescript, where it was sent from and, lastly, whether I have found my old friends once more. This time I shall not, however, be able to help you satisfy your curiosity. I am sure you will understand why.

  Lastly, I am sure that you will be asking yourself why I am sending this to you. I can just imagine your confusion, and how you will be wondering whether I am naive, or mad, or whether mine is a form of logic which you cannot follow. One of these three is the answer that you seek.

  May God inspire you, once more, in the reading which you are about to undertake. And once again, may He make you an instrument of His will.

  Lorenzo dell'Agio pulvis et cinis

  Most Eminent and Reverend Sir,

  With ev'ry Hour that passeth, I am the more persuaded that Your Lordship will without a Doubt be most sensible of a compendious Account of those extraordinary (Events which took place in (Rome in Jufy of the Year 1700, of which the most renowned and illustrious Protagonist was a faithful Subject of His Most Christian Majesty King Louis of F rance, concerning whose Successes one may here enjoy a great Wealth of Descriptions and Commentaries.

  This is the Fruit born of the Labours of a simple Son of the Soil; and yet I dare trust that the luminous genius of Yr Most Illustrious Lordship will not disdain the Offspring of my Savage Muse. Poor indeed is the gift, yet rich is the Intent.

  Will you pardon me, Sir, if in the Pages that follow I have not included praises enow? The Sun, altho' ne'er praised by Others, is yet the Sun. In Recompense, I expect Nothing other than that which you have already promised me, nor shall I repeat that, mindful as I am that never could a Soul as gen'rous as Yours deviate from Itself.

  May I wish Yr Excellency a Life long enough to be for me a Harbinger of lasting hope; and most humbly do I make my Reverence.

  Day the First

  7th J uly, 1700

  Ardent and high in the heavens above Rome shone the sun on that midday of the 7th of July in the year of Our Lord 1700, on which day the Lord did grace me with much hard labour (but against discreet recompense) in the gardens of the Villa Spada.

  Lifting mine eyes from the ground and scrutinising the horizon beyond the distant wrought-iron gates flung open for the occasion, I glimpsed, perhaps even before any of the lackeys who stood guard around the gate of honour, the cloud of white dust from the road which announced the head of the long serpent of the guests' carriages moving in slow succession.

  Upon that sight, which I was soon sharing with the other servants of the villa, who had as ever forgathered, drawn by curiosity, the joyous fervour of the preparations became yet more fevered; presently, they all returned to bustle around in the back rooms of the casino — the great house — where the major-domos had for days now fussed impatiently, shouting orders at the servants, as they muddled and collided with the varletry busily heaping up the last provisions in the cellars, while the peasants unloading cases of fruit and vegetables hurried to remount their carts stationed near the tradesmen's entrance, calling back their wives whenever they tarried too long in their search for the right pair of hands into which religiously to deliver majestic strings of flowers as red and velvety as their cheeks.

  Pallid embroideresses arrived, delivering damasked cloths, hangings and eburnean hemstitched tablecloths, the very sight of which was blinding under the blazing sun; carpenters finished nailing and planing scaffolding, seats and platforms, in bizarre counterpoint to the disorderly practising of the musicians, who had come to try out the acoustics of the various natural theatres; architects squinted through puckered eyes as they verified the enfilade of an avenue, kneeling, wig grasped awkwardly in one hand, panting because of the great heat, as they checked again and again on the final effect of a mise-en-scene.

  All this commotion was not without cause. In barely two days' time, Cardinal Fabrizio Spada would be solemnising the marriage of his one-and-twenty-year-old nephew Clemente, heir to the most copious fortune, with Maria Pulcheria Rocci, likewise the niece of a most eminent member of the Holy College of Cardinals.

  In order worthily to celebrate the event, Cardinal Spada would be diverting with entertainments a multitude of prelates, nobles and cavaliers at the family villa, which stands, surrounded by magnificent gardens, on the Janiculum Hill near to the source of the Acqua Paola, whence one enjoys the loveliest and most aerial prospect of the city's roofs.

  Such was the summer's heat that the villa seemed preferable to th
e family's grandiose and celebrated palace down in the city, in the Piazza Capo di Ferro, where the guests would not have been able to taste the delights of the countryside.

  In advance of the ceremonies proper, festivities were already commencing that very day when, at around midday, as expected, the carriages of the more eager guests were already to be seen on the horizon. Noble names in plenty would soon be forgathering, together with churchmen coming from far and wide, the diplomatic representatives of the great powers, the members of the Holy College and scions and elders of all the great families. The first official entertainments were to take place on the day of the nuptials, when everything would be ready to bedazzle the guests with scenic effects both natural and ephemeral, with exotic flowers set among the native plants and papier mache challenging the onlooker to recognise it under a thousand guises, richer than the gold of Solomon, more elusive than the quicksilver of Hydria.

  The cloud of dust from the carriages, which still moved seemingly without a sound because of the excessive clangour of the preparations, was drawing ever nearer and, from the high point of the great curve before the gates of the Villa Spada one could already descry the first flashes of the magnificent ornaments which adorned coaches and equipages.

  The first to arrive, or so we had been told, would be the guests from outside Rome, who would thus be able to enjoy a well-deserved repose after the fatigues of the journey and to savour two evenings of gentle rustic peace. Thus they would come to the festivities refreshed, at ease and already diverted by a little merry-making; all of which would surely augment the general good humour and make for the greatest possible success of the celebrations.

  The Roman guests, on the other hand, would have the choice of lodging at the Villa Spada or, if they were too occupied with official business or other matters, of arriving by carriage every day at midday and returning to their own residences in the evening.