Secretum am-2 Read online

  Here in Rome, the air is pregnant with a thousand turmoils. All this is further complicated by the fact that, as you know, all three Ambassadors of the great Powers, namely Spain, France and the Empire, are new to these parts. Count Leopold Joseph von Lamberg, Ambassador of His Caesarean Majesty Leopold I of Habsburg, Holy Roman Emperor, arrived here some six months ago.

  The Duke of Uzeda, a sharp-witted Spaniard, has been in post for about a year.

  The same is true of the French diplomatic representative, Louis Grimaldi, Duke of Valentinois and Prince of Monaco, a great polemicist, who does more harm than good and has already argued with half Rome over stupid questions of etiquette. So much so that His Majesty has been obliged to pull his ears and remind him above all to cultivate fruitful relations with the nation whose guest he is.

  That one can do little for France. Fortunately, the Most Christian King need not count only on him.

  But let us change the subject to ourselves. I hope that you are now in perfect health and will ever continue so to be. Alas, I cannot say the same of myself. Today, upon my arrival at the Villa Spada, a bizarre incident befell me: I was stabbed in the right arm by a stranger.

  And here the Abbot, in truth exaggerating a little, dwelt at some length upon the blood which had stained his white shirt and the operations of the chirurgeon which he had borne heroically, and so on and so forth, rising to a paroxystic crescendo…

  Ah, cruel stilet which pierced my tender side… Alas I'm tired! This painful wound makes me so weak I can't support me longer. The wound still stabs at me, and that most grievously.

  Did Atto wish to impress this Maria? The tone of the letter seemed to conceal a seductive intent.

  Abbot Melani went on to write that, despite the fact that the sergeant of the villa was certain that it had been only a beggar, he, Atto, feared that he had not been a mere accidental victim but rather the target of an attempt on his life organised by the opposing faction; for which reason he intended to request a private audience with Ambassador Lamberg as soon as he — who was also among the guests at the wedding of Cardinal Fabrizio's nephew — arrived at Villa Spada.

  However, dear Friend, let us cure the wound and not the offence, for vengeance ne'er did heal a wound.

  These revelations surprised me. I had noticed Atto's scepticism when I spoke to him of my conversation with Sfasciamonti; now, however, I discovered that Atto had very specific suspicions. Why had he not mentioned this to me? He could not fail to trust Buvat; he entrusted him with copying all his letters. Perhaps he did not trust me? This last supposition was however no less improbable: had he not paid me to be his chronicler? Nevertheless, I bethought myself, with Abbot Melani one could never be sure of anything…

  The letter ended in honeyed tones, which I could scarce have imagined on the lips or pen of Atto Melani:

  You cannot know how bitter was the Dolour inflicted on me by the Knowledge that you will tarry e'en longer at the Gates of Rome.

  Ah, cruel one! If thou hast shot at me, 'twas thine own Mark, and proper for thine Arrow. The Letter, which gave the deadly Wound, obeyed the sure direction of your lovely Eye.

  My Arm has once more begun to bleed and 'twill bleed on until it has the Joy and Honour to support Yours. Haste you then to the Villa Spada and to me, my most beloved Friend, or you will have me on your Conscience.

  After the intolerably cloying sirop of those lines, I read a postil:

  Even now, then, is Lidio's Felicity Nothing to you?

  Here, once again, was that Lidio. I did not even ask myself who this stranger with the curious name might be. I was most unlikely to learn that unless I could first discover the identity of Abbot Melani's mysterious correspondent.

  So, I summed up, this Maria was also expected at the Villa Spada. And she was late; that explained the frown on the face of Abbot Melani when he read her letter. I reflected that she must be a noblewoman of a certain age, given that Atto spoke to her as to an old friend. In the two letters, moreover, he made no mention of her family; it seemed indeed that she was travelling alone. She must truly be a personage of great importance, as well as of high rank, thought I, if they had dared invite her to the wedding unaccompanied: ancient and single noblewomen, whether or not they be widowed, generally enclose themselves in the isolation of prayer, when not indeed in cloister. They withdraw from society and no one dares disturb them save for pious works. This lady seemed, what is more, to be of a truly singular temperament to have accepted the invitation!

  1 felt deeply curious to know her or at least to know who she might be. I glanced rapidly at the other letters in the bundle; they were hers, and they spoke of events in Spain. She must be Spanish; or perhaps an Italian (for she wrote my language so beautifully) who dwelt there or at any rate possessed great interests in that country. In all the epistles, the secret of the writer's identity was, alas, well preserved. I must therefore resign myself to awaiting her arrival at the villa, who knows when; either that, or discreetly interrogate Buvat.

  I put off reading these letters to another day; I had profited unduly from the Abbot and his secretary's absence. I durst not risk discovery one moment longer.

  As I had intended to do before my incursion into the Abbot's apartment, I returned downstairs in order to obtain something for supper and then to present myself to the Major-Domo.

  I returned the keys to the Abbot's chambers to their proper place and was about to enter the kitchens when I saw the coachman who served Cardinal Fabrizio at the Apostolic Palace emerging all breathless and red in the face. I asked a Venetian milkmaid who frequented the villa and was on the point of leaving whether by any chance something had happened.

  "No, 'tis nothing. 'Tis only Cardinal Spada who is always in a furious rush these days, for it seems there's much afoot at the Apostolic Palace. And it must be something really important to give him such a headache, that it must. His Eminency is always in such ill humour and the coachman is almost going out of his mind, what with carting the master back an' forth from a cardinal to an ambassador and then back again for some business about a papal bull or I know not what, and having to put up with his state of nerves."

  I was dumbstruck. The power of women! This modest milkmaid had needed only the few minutes of her regular visit to the villa's kitchens to understand what it would have taken me a whole day, and much good fortune, to get wind of. I had come to realise this when my Cloridia became one of the most respected and sought-after midwives for Rome's noble matrons (and their maids): with all the news that she brought back home every day I could easily have filled a gazette.

  "Ah, and please give my regards to the Signora your wife and a kiss to the little ones," added the milkmaid, as though she had been reading my thoughts. "You know, my sister's confinement has been going perfectly since la Cloridia brought that old goat of a brother-in-law of mine to reason. She's a really fine woman, your wife, you know."

  Of course I knew that Cloridia was now not just a midwife but a veritable godmother: an authoritative and willing counsellor to whom women, both those of the people and society ladies, went for advice and assistance in the most intimate and delicate matters. From the education of the husband during his wife's pregnancy to the weaning of the infant: for every circumstance, my wife had a smile and the right words. Such was her ability that she was sometimes called upon by the famous medicus and chirurgeon Baiocco to assist him with confinements that took place within the ancient walls of the Fatebenefratelli Hospital on the island of San Bartolomeo on the Tiber.

  Affable, gay, gracious, bantering, courageous, Cloridia always enheartened women with child, assuring them that they would give birth without much pain. She could tell that from many signs which, she swore, she had observed in others; the which, although untruths, were recommended even by Plato in The Republic for consoling the sick.

  All in all, after fifteen years exercising the office of midwife, Cloridia was accorded by her women, and not only them, the respect due to a judge presiding over a
family court.

  Once I had quit the milkmaid, I found myself a place at a corner of the table where the servants were devouring their supper. While eating my meal in silence, I meditated upon Atto's words: to know the world, all you need is to make good use of your eyes, ears and brain. Was that not exactly what my Cloridia did too? I, however, was unable to do that, and I was perfectly aware of the fact; in this respect I had not progressed one iota since the days when I was a young and innocent apprentice at the Locanda del Donzello. In those days, inexperience played its part, but now I was, on the contrary, held back by an excess of accumulated experience which had prompted me to withdraw in disgust from the mean quotidian round of worldly affairs.

  Perhaps my wife was right to reprove me for being a new Cincinnatus. It was true. Leaning upon my hoe and on Sundays over my books, I neither saw, heard nor ever asked myself questions. Even with the neighbours, I had been at pains never to form bonds of friendship, scarcely even of acquaintance. So much so that, whenever I happened to learn some news and to mention it to Cloridia in the evening, I would invariably receive the same reply: "Well, are you surprised? That's old hat. By now, everybody knows."

  Mine was disdain for the world but also — yes, I must confess — fear of it, fear of the evil I had seen there.

  Now, however, something had changed. The sudden reappearance of Abbot Melani had brought about an earthquake in my life. Cloridia would — I knew — mock me to scorn for allowing myself once more to be caught in Melani's gins. But what did that matter? I loved her so, even when she lashed me derisively with knowing words, as though I were a mere schoolboy. Besides, she'd not laugh so much at the twelve hundred scudi which my memoir had earned for us…

  Yes, something had changed; although I remained a dwarf in body as in spirit, yet it was time now to disinter and put to good use those few talents which Divine Providence had given me. Of course, with Atto one knew where one was starting from but not where one would end up. On the other hand, as I had been able to discover from his scapular, old age had markedly increased the Abbot's fear of God.

  How much did I really owe Abbot Melani? I owed him not only the disillusionment which had engendered so much mistrust in me, but also such good things as had happened in my poor life: Cloridia, above all. If the Abbot had not come seventeen years earlier to upset the rhythm of my days and those of the other lodgers at the Locanda del Donzello, never would I have approached my beloved wife, and she herself would have remained caught up forever in the turbid profession in which I had found her. Neither would I ever have been able to acquire the science of men's thought nor indeed knowledge of the affairs of the world, wherewith I was now measuring that world. It was, without a doubt, a most bitter science, but one which had from a tremulous lad forged a man.

  After supper, I set such thoughts aside and, as I rose from the table, I began once again to reflect upon the latest news. Going by the information I had received from the milkmaid, I must acknowledge that Abbot Melani was right. On the upper storeys of the Apostolic Palace of Monte Cavallo, important manoeuvres were taking place.

  Barely had I had time to take my cordial leave of the chief cook and set foot outside the kitchen than a voice recalled me to my duties: "Signor Master of the Fowls!"

  He who was now calling me by a title which in reality I did not deserve was just the man I sought: Don Paschatio Melchiorri, the Major-Domo.

  Don Paschatio was above all things respectful of the prerogatives of those whose labour he, with the most pompous and dignified ceremoniousness, lovingly directed; and since in Don Paschatio's eyes the first attribute to be respected was the title, he had liberally endowed each of his subordinates with a title in keeping with the magnificence of the Spada household, which we all humbly and faithfully served. So it was that I, who more and more frequently supplied the aviary with feed and water, had become the Master of the Fowls. A peasant from the neighbourhood who, from time to time performed the duties of hoeing, weeding and manuring the flower beds was no longer to be called Giuseppe (his real name) in Don Paschatio's presence, but Master of the Hoe. The husbandman of the vineyard, Lorenzo, who provided the Villa Spada with golden clusters of grapes and white wine, was graced with the title of Master Viticulturist. With the passing of time, similar names had been granted by Don Paschatio to all the servants of the villa, down to the last and humblest day-labourers like myself. When Don Paschatio was doing his rounds, 'twas midst a veritable flowering of sonorous titles, like "Master of the Horse, good day to you, Sir!", "Master Deputy Bursar, good evening!", "Master Assistant Steward, good day to you, show me the luncheon table!", while those whom he addressed were merely a groom, a clerk assisting with kitchen supplies and one of the cook's assistants. And this he did, not out of love for rhetoric, but from the highest regard for the service of his lord. One could have asked Don Paschatio quite unceremoniously whether one could cut off a finger, yet he'd reflect before refusing. No one, however, could ever have asked him to deprive himself of the pleasure and the honour of devotedly and faithfully serving the distinguished and noble Spada family.

  It so happened that Don Paschatio had overheard me that evening taking my leave of the Steward with the words "Farewell till tomorrow, chief!", which he found undignified and over-familiar: "You see, Signor Master of the Fowls," quoth he, upbraiding me with courteous gravity, as though to put me on guard against some danger, "the Steward commands the cook, the carver, the scullions and the kitchen barons as well, of course, as the bursars."

  "Don Paschatio, I know, I…"

  "Let me tell you, let me tell you, Signor Master of the Fowls. The good Steward must prepare the list of purchases for the bursar, and make sure that what is bought corresponds thereto, and that from the pantry it passes directly into the hands of the cook. The disposition of the provisions, which must…"

  "Believe me, truly, I meant only to…" I interrupted in vain.

  "… of the provisions, as I was saying, which must appear magnificent, both on the ordinary table and on the banqueting table, all of which depends upon the worthiness and good judgement of the Steward who, being excellent at his profession, makes little appear much and with sparse purchases can produce as fine a display of victuals as another less expert might manage, spending twice as much. For a steward who cannot perfectly order and administer will be cheated, which will be prejudicial to his own honour and to that of his master. Do you follow me, Signor Master of the Fowls?"

  "Yes, Don Paschatio," I nodded resignedly.

  "The Steward must so arrange matters that the viands are well kept, in order of time, so that they are served up at table in small quantities and promptly, so that they do not grow cold, and meet the master's desires; he must ensure that no strangers enter the pantry or the secret kitchen, where he commands, and sometimes not even members of the household. He must take great care in controlling that the comestibles which reach his lord's mouth are of the best quality and pass through as few hands as possible, so as to avoid any possibility of the dishes being spoiled or indeed even poisoned. The Steward, in sum, hold's his master's life in his hands."

  "I understand your meaning, but I only permitted myself to salute.."

  "Signor Master of the Fowls, having due regard to what I have just brought to your attention, I beg you to make your salutations in the manner prescribed by the rules of the Spada household and to address the Signor Steward with all due deference," said he in heartfelt tones, as though I had gravely offended the interested party who, at that moment, had very different matters on his mind.

  "Very well, that I promise you, Signor Major-Domo," I replied, carried away by the abuse of appellations, even forgetting that I myself was wont always to address Don Paschatio by his name.

  Don Paschatio's natural tendency was obviously accentuated in those days by the great preparations for the nuptials.

  "Signor Master of the Fowls," said he at length, "a foreign gentleman, or so I am informed, one whom we have the honour of numbering among
the guests of His Eminence Cardinal Spada, has of late requested your services. I know that he is a person of note and do not intend to interfere in the matter; nevertheless, I trust that you will be so good as to fulfil your duties, where these do not conflict with the requirements of the gentleman in question, with unaltered alacrity."

  "Pardon me, but how did you know?" I asked in surprise.

  "I have been notified, simply and… well, yes, I hope that I meet with your complaisant and responsible understanding," replied Don Paschatio.

  It was clear that Atto, in order to be able to enjoy my services undisturbed during those days at the Villa Spada must have paid some sizeable gratuity, perhaps to the Major-Domo himself, thus acquiring for himself the reputation of a gentleman who can, if he so desires, be quite generous. I therefore informed Don Paschatio that I was at that moment at his service, if he so desired.

  "But of course, Master of the Fowls," he replied with ill-concealed satisfaction, "there are indeed a number of tasks which you could fulfil, seeing that certain persons have, how shall I put it, betrayed their trust."

  He explained to me that a number of servants had that afternoon inexplicably absented themselves, failing to nail the steps of the theatre's stairways, so that the work could not be completed on time, as Cardinal Spada had peremptorily ordered a few weeks previously. I knew the reason (perfectly trivial, in truth) for that desertion: they had met a group of country girls and had carried them off to gallivant amongst the vines outside the San Pancrazio Gate behind the Corsini's House of the Four Winds; a circumstance which I kept to myself, not so much in order to avoid being a tell-tale as not to aggravate the mood of Don Paschatio. The Master of the Household was already furious; yet again, he had been abandoned by his subordinates and the dressing-down which he had received from Cardinal Spada had left its mark on him.

  "I have proposed to Cardinal Spada a list of subjects to be punished," said he, lying, not knowing that I had overheard his conversation with our master. "We are, however, in difficulties and we urgently need more hands. It would be most helpful if you, Master of the Fowls, could, drawing upon your versatility in serving this august Spada household, put on appropriate apparel — livery, to be exact — and take part in serving viands and beverages at table, as the guests of His Excellency may require. They are all now on the meadow near the fountain, and are just beginning to dine. I shall be near at hand. Go, then, I beg you."