Secretum am-2 Read online

  It was precisely in view of such political skirmishing that Cardinal Spada, that most prudent of men, had, as I had learned from Don Paschatio, taken a series of counter-measures. So as to avoid, for example, the possibility that someone might peel fruit after the French fashion or, on the contrary, according to that of Spain, fruit was served already peeled.

  Of course, for some years now there had no longer been any risk of seeing some gentlemen apparelled in the Spanish fashion and others, a la francaise, for thanks to the splendours ofVersailles, it was now the great mode for all to dress after the manner of the Most Christian King. Yet, for that very reason, it was all the rage to show to which party one belonged by means of a whole series of little details: from the handkerchief in one's cloak (those of the Spanish party wearing it on the right, while the Francophiles wore it on the left), or the stockings (white for the French party, red for the Hispanophiles), so that it was no accident if Abbot Melani had that evening chosen to wear white in the place of his usual red Abbot's hose.

  Nor could the ladies be prevented from getting themselves up with a bunch of flowers on their right bosom if they were Guelphs (that is, of the Hispanic persuasion) or on the left if they were Ghibellines (on the French side). However, in order to avoid the table at which all were to eat being set too much in accordance with the traditions of the one side or the other, in particular as to the placing of the crockery which is, as is well known, the decisive factor for determining the political affiliation of the guests, it had been decided to abandon established etiquette and to do something new: knives, forks and spoons had been placed vertically in the glasses, which had caused no little astonishment among the guests, while avoiding pointless polemics.

  "But with hounds, it is quite a different matter," insisted another cardinal, who was wearing a striking French wig.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I am only saying that once Prince Perretti had sixty hounds. When the season was over, he'd send them elsewhere for the summer, as hounds suffer from the heat, and thus he economised too."

  It was Cardinal Santa Croce who, overshadowed by his own bulky periwig, sang the praises of hunting to hounds.

  "There was no need to remind everyone that he has money problems," I heard a young canon, not far from me, whisper to his neighbour, taking advantage of the fact that the conversation had broken up in disorder into many little groups.

  "Ah, Santa Croce is all at cross purposes with himself," the other responded with a snigger. "He's so hungry that his tongue hangs out and the very words that he ought to keep in his mouth come tumbling down onto the floor."

  The speaker was another cardinal, whose name I did not yet know; I noticed that he seemed unwell, and yet he ate and drank enthusiastically, as though his humour were sanguine.

  Fate (or rather, another factor, of which I shall speak later) came to my rescue, for at that moment, a servant approached this cardinal with a note.

  "Eminence, I have a note for His Eminence Cardinal Spinola

  "For Spinola di Santa Cecilia or for my nephew Spinola di San Cesareo, who is sitting on the other side of the table? Or for Spinola, the Chairman of Ripetta? This evening, all three of us are here."

  The servant was speechless for a moment.

  "The Major-Domo told me only that it was for His Excellency Cardinal Spinola," he ventured timidly, his voice almost inaudible amidst the gay clamour of the banquet.

  "Then it could be me. Hand it over."

  He opened the note and closed it at once.

  "Go and give it at once to Cardinal Spinola di San Cesareo who is seated on the far side. Do you see him? Right over there."

  His neighbour at table had, meanwhile, tactfully turned his attention to his plate and begun again to eat. Spinola di Santa Cecilia (for now it was clear that it was he) turned back to him at once.

  "Now, can you believe it? That fool of a Major-Domo made me receive a note from Spada for my nephew, Spinola di San Cesareo."

  "Ah yes?" replied the other, his physiognomy lit up by lively curiosity.

  "It said: All three on board tomorrow at dawn. I shall tell A.'"

  "A? And who would that be?"

  "How would I know? Seeing that he wants to go out in a boat, let us only hope that he doesn't drown," concluded Spinola with a snigger.

  The guests took their leave at a rather late hour. I was exhausted. The flame of the torch which I had held aloft for hours had roasted half my face and bathed my whole body in perspiration.

  We torchbearers had to wait humbly until the last guest had left the table. Thus, despite my burning desire to ask him for explanations, I was quite unable to approach Atto. I saw him move away, accompanied by Buvat, while the servants were already snuffing out the table candlesticks. He had not deigned to accord me so much as a glance.

  Up in the attic, in the big servants' hall, I was so weary that I could barely think. In the dark, amidst the rumble of my companions' snoring, I was a prey to anguish; the Abbot had treated me horribly, as had never before happened between us. Nothing made sense. I was confused, nay, desperate.

  I began to fear that I had committed an unpardonable error by agreeing to get involved again with Melani. I had allowed myself to be swept along by events when I ought only to have given myself time to reflect. And perhaps even — why not? — to put the Abbot to the test. Instead, within the space of a single day, Atto had been able to plummet down into my life again as though his coming were the most natural thing in the world. Ah, but the temptation of lucre had been irresistible…

  I undressed, and, curling up on one of the pallets that had remained free, I soon slipped into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

  "… They dressed him for the undertakers."

  "Where did it happen?"

  "In Via dei Coronari. Four or five of them held him up and robbed him of all that he had."

  Conspiratorial whispering, not far from me, had torn me from my slumbers. Two servants were clearly commenting on some dreadful assault.

  "But what was his trade?"

  "Bookbinder."

  The breathless rush that followed these tidings did not prove as useful as I had expected.

  When, after a breakneck descent of the back stairs, I came and knocked at Abbot Melani's door, I found him already up and on a war footing. Far from being still in bed as I had expected, there he was with ink-stained hands, bending over a pile of papers. He must just have finished writing a letter. He greeted me with a countenance heavy and fraught with dark thoughts.

  "I have come to inform you of a matter of extreme gravity."

  "I know. Haver, the bookbinder, is dead."

  "How did you learn of it?" I asked, dumbfounded.

  "And you, how do you know?"

  "I just heard tell of it now, upstairs, from two valets."

  "Then I have sources better than yours. That catchpoll Sfasciamonti has just been here. 'Twas he who told me."

  "At this hour?" I cried out in astonishment.

  "I was on the point of sending Buvat to fetch you," retorted the Abbot, ignoring my question. "We have an appointment with the catchpoll down below in the coach-house."

  "Are you afraid that this may be connected with the attack upon yourself today?"

  "'Tis the same thing as you're thinking of; or else you'd not have come rushing here in the middle of the night."

  Without exchanging a word, all three of us went down to the coach-house, where Sfasciamonti was waiting in an old service calash, with a coachman and a team of two horses ready to go.

  "A thousand bombs blast 'em!" cried the visibly overexcited catchpoll, while the coachman led the horses out and closed the door behind us. "It seems that things went like this. Poor Haver slept in the mezzanine above the shop. Three or four men entered the shop during the night, some say there were even more of them. We have no idea how they got in. The door was not forced. They tied up the poor wretch and gagged him by stuffing a piece of wool in his mouth, then they searched the place from
top to bottom. They took all the money he had and left. After who knows how long, the bookbinder managed to remove the gag and to cry out. He was found in a state of deep shock. He was utterly terrified. While he was telling the tale to all the neighbours, he felt unwell. When the doctor arrived, he found him dead."

  "Was he wounded?" I asked.

  "I have not seen the body, other sergeants arrived before I could. Now my men are seeking information on the case."

  "Are we going to this place?" I asked.

  "Almost," replied the Abbot. "We shall be going very near there."

  We stopped at Piazza Fiammetta, a short distance from the beginning of the Via dei Coronari. The night was barely lit by a sliver of moon. The air was fresh and pleasant. Sfasciamonti got down and told us to wait there. We looked all around us but saw not a soul. Then a market gardener hove in sight on his cart. Not long after that, a piercing whistle made us jump. It was Sfasciamonti, half concealed in a doorway, from which his rounded belly could, however, just be seen peeping out. He was gesturing to us to join him. We drew near.

  "Hey, go easy," we both protested when he dragged us both by brute force into the dank, dark porch.

  "Hush!" hissed the catchpoll, flattening himself against the front door behind one of the pilasters framing it.

  "Two cerretani, they were stalking you. When they saw me, they hid. Perhaps they've gone now. I must go and see."

  "Were they shadowing us?" Atto asked worriedly.

  We held our breath. Prudently craning our necks, we caught sight of two ragged and emaciated old tramps, crossing the road.

  "You are a dunderhead, Sfasciamonti," whispered Atto, uttering a sigh of relief. "Do you really think those two half-dead wretches could spy on anyone?"

  "The cerretani watch over you without giving themselves away. They are secretive," answered the catchpoll without so much as batting an eyelid.

  "Very well," cut in Abbot Melani, "have you spoken with the person I told you to find?"

  "All in order, by the recoil of a thousand howitzers!" came the catchpoll's immediate reassurance, accompanied by his curious imprecations.

  The place was in a side-road giving onto the Via dei Coronari, scarcely a block away from the bookbinder's shop. We arrived there by the most tortuous route, as Atto and Sfasciamonti wanted at all costs to avoid passing in front of the scene of the crime, where there was a risk of encountering the sergeants assigned to the case. Fortunately, darkness was our ally.

  "Why are we hiding, Signor Atto? We have nothing to do with the death of the bookbinder," said I.

  Melani did not answer me.

  "The criminal judge has assigned new officers to the case. I do not know them," announced Sfasciamonti as we left Piazza Fiammetta behind us, setting off towards Piazza San Salvatore in Lauro.

  We defiled through the alleyways of the quarter, where Buvat stumbled upon a sleeping congregation of ragged friars, barely managing to avoid falling against a pile of boxes and baskets belonging to street vendors who lay dozing as they awaited dawn and their first customers. Under the cloths and blankets delicious odours betrayed the presence of French lettuces, sweet lupin seeds, fresh waffles and cheese.

  The rendezvous was far removed from prying eyes, in the shop of a coronaro, that is, a maker of rosaries. We were welcomed by the artisan, an old man with a face covered in wrinkles who greeted Melani with great deference, as though he were long acquainted with him, and led us towards the back of the shop. We made our way through that cool little den replete with great rosaries made of wood and of bone, of every form and colour, finely interwoven and hanging on the walls or laid on little tables. The coronaro opened a drawer.

  "Here you are, Sir," said he respectfully as he handed the Abbot a packet enveloped in blue velvet, which seemed to me to be in the form of a little picture.

  After saying this, the coronaro disappeared with Sfasciamonti into the back room. Atto gestured to Buvat that we were to follow them.

  I could not understand. Why ever should the death of the bookbinder have led us into that shop of devotional objects to take delivery of what I imagined to be the picture of some saint, presumably to be hung on the wall? I was unable to make a connection between the two things.

  Atto guessed my thoughts and, taking me by the arm, deemed the time right for providing me with some initial explanations.

  "I had arranged this morning with the bookbinder that he should leave the little book here, with this good man."

  So it was not some small picture that the coronaro had brought Melani, but the mysterious little book of which the Abbot was so unwilling to speak.

  "I know this coronaro well, he helps me out whenever I need it and I know that I can trust him," he added, without, however, adding what services he might need of a coronaro or giving me the slightest clue as to the nature of the book.

  "Since the bookbinder was often absent from his shop, I thought that it would be more convenient to collect it here," continued the Abbot. "After all, I had already paid for the new binding. And I did well so to arrange matters, for otherwise, if I wanted to collect my little opuscule, I'd have found myself in a quarrel with some sergeant asking too many questions: whether I knew the bookbinder, how long I'd been acquainted with him, what relations I had with him… Try explaining to him how, at the very moment when I was talking with poor Haver, I was stabbed in the arm by a stranger. They'd never have believed me. I can just imagine the questions: how is it that it happened just then, there must surely be a connec tion, what were you doing here in Rome, and so on and so forth. In other words, my boy, it does not bear thinking about."

  Then Atto beckoned me to follow him. He did not move towards the door but took me into the back room, into which Sfasciamonti had disappeared a few minutes before with the coronaro and Buvat. In the back of the shop, we were awaited by a little woman of about fifty, seated at a worn old table, modest and somewhat poorly dressed. She was talking with Sfasciamonti and the coronaro while Buvat listened as though stunned. When Atto entered, the woman stood up at once out of respect, having realised that here was a gentleman.

  "Have you finished?" asked Melani.

  The catchpoll and Buvat nodded.

  "That woman is a neighbour of poor Haver," Sfasciamonti be gan to explain to us as we walked away from the shop, leaving

  Piazza San Salvatore in Lauro behind us. "She saw everything from a window. She heard someone lamenting and knocking at the binder's door. The latter, who seems to have been a very pious man, opened up straight away but had no time to close the door before two other figures slipped in. They went away half an hour later, carrying off a great pile of paper with them as well as a number of books that had already been bound."

  "Poor Haver. And poor fool, too," commented Atto.

  "But why they took away papers, we know not," said I, looking at Atto.

  "Where the cerretani are involved, one can never understand a thing," interrupted Sfasciamonti, his visage growing dark.

  "But how can you be so sure that this was the work of your mendicants?" asked Atto, growing somewhat impatient.

  "Experience. When one springs up — and here I speak of the one who was running away and who wounded you — he is invariably followed by others," said the catchpoll gravely.

  Atto stopped suddenly, thus bringing all three of us to a stop.

  "Come on now, what are you talking about? Sfasciamonti, we cannot go on like this with your half-baked explanations. Kindly tell me once and for all what it is that these mendicants do, these… Cerrisani, as you call them."

  "Cerretani," Sfasciamonti humbly corrected.

  I was sure of it. He would never have admitted it, but even then Atto Melani felt the serpent of fear slide up from his ankles into his guts.

  He knew all too well that he had had a physical encounter with one of the strange individuals of whom Sfasciamonti was speaking, and from that encounter he had received a stab wound which was still hurting and hindering him, following which t
he bookbinder in whose presence all that had taken place had been assaulted that very night in his own shop, and had died. And he had had his own little book bound by that same unfortunate man; coincidences which could have brought pleasure to no one.

  "Above all, I want to know," the Abbot added brusquely, his impatient mind struggling with the fatigue of his old limbs, "are they acting on their own behalf or for hire?"

  "Do you really think it is so easy to find that out? With the cerretani strange things are always happening. Indeed, only strange things happen."

  The catchpoll then began to describe what, as far as he had learned, was the origin of the cerretani, and the real nature of that mysterious confraternity.

  "The cerretani. A rabble. They come from Cerreto in Umbria, where they took refuge after fleeing Rome. They were priests, and the higher priests chased them away."

  In Cerreto, the account continued, the cerretani chose from among their number a new Upright Man or head priest who di vided them up according to their talents, into groups, cells and sects: Rufflers, Clapperdogeons or Fermerdy Beggars, Pailliards, Strollers, Buskers, Bourdons or False Pilgrims, Fraters or Jarkmen, Money Droppers, Rooks, Cunning-men and Cunny-shavers, Counterfeit Cranks, Dommerers, Sky Farmers and Gaggers, Duffers, Sharks or Sharpers, Faulkners, Fators, Saint Peter's Sons, Files, Bulkers, Nippers and Foysters, Hedge Priests or Patricoes, Swigmen, Abram Men, Amusers, Anglers (or Hookers), Chopchurches, Collectors, Pinchers, Swaddlers, Ark Ruffians, Wiper Drawers, Badgers, Bawdy Baskets, Sneaks, Snudges, Cleymers, Cloak Twitchers, Crackers, Flying Porters, Rum Dubbers, Lully Triggers, Leggers, Lumpers, Heavers, Hostelers, Jinglers, Whipjacks, Kid Lays, Queer Plungers, Reliquaries, and so on and so forth.

  "How do you manage to remember all those names?"

  "With the job I do…"

  He went on to explain that the Fraters, who are also known as Jarkmen, counterfeit the seals of pontiffs or prelates — which they call jarks in their gibberish — and show them off, pretending that they have permits to issue indulgences, saving sinners from purgatory and hell and to absolve all sins, in exchange for which they exact payment in gold from the credulous.