Imprimatur Read online

  I realised at that point that I had not asked the abbot whether he was a composer, an organist or a choirmaster. Fortunately, I with­held that question. His almost hairless face, unusually gentle and womanish movements, and above all his very clear voice, almost like that of a small boy who had unexpectedly attained maturity, revealed that I was in the presence of an emasculated singer.

  The abbot doubtless remarked the flash of recognition which my look must have betrayed at the instant when I received this illumination. He continued, however, as though nothing had transpired.

  "Then, there were not as many singers as today. For a good many, the way lay open and they could travel far and attain unhoped-for goals. As for myself, besides possessing the talent which heaven was pleased to bestow upon me, I had studied with some alacrity. Thus it was that my patron, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, sent me to Paris in the retinue of my master, Luigi Rossi."

  So that was where that strange "r" came from, thought I to myself, in which he seemed to take such delight.

  "Did you travel to Paris in order to continue your studies?"

  "Do you imagine that one would still need to study who possessed letters of recommendation to Cardinal Mazarin and to the Queen in person?"

  "But then, Signor Abbot, you have had occasion to sing for those Royal Highnesses?"

  "Queen Anne enjoyed my singing, I might say, more than ordinarily. She loved melancholy airs in the Italian style, in which I was per­fectly able to satisfy her. No two evenings passed without my going to serve her, and every time for at least four hours in her apartments, no thought could arise of anything but music."

  He broke off and looked out of the window, as though oblivious.

  "You have never visited the court of Paris. How could one explain this to you? All those nobles and cavaliers rendered me a thousand honours, and when I sang for the Queen, I seemed to be in paradise, surrounded by a thousand angelic faces. The Queen went so far as to beg the Grand Duke not to recall me to Italy, so that she might still enjoy my services. My patron, who was her first cousin on his mother's side, complied with that request. It was the Queen in person who, a few weeks later, showed me, while gracing me with the sweetest of smiles, the letter from my patron permitting me to remain in Paris yet awhile longer. When I had read it, I felt myself dying from jubilation and contentment."

  The abbot had then returned more and more often to Paris, also in the retinue of his master, Luigi Rossi, whose name caused his eyes to shine with pent-up emotion each time that he pronounced it.

  "Today, his name means nothing. But then, all accorded him the honours which were his due: for he was a great—indeed, a very great—man. He wished me to play the hero of the Orfeo, the most splendid opera ever to be performed at the French court. It was a memorable success. I was but one and twenty years old then. And, after two months of continuous performances, I had barely the time to return to Florence before Mazarin begged the Grand Duke to send me back to France, so much did the Queen miss my voice. Thus it was that, after returning with Seigneur Luigi, we found ourselves caught up in the turmoil of the Fronde and were forced to flee Paris, together with the Queen, the Cardinal and the little King."

  "So you knew the Most Christian King as a child!"

  "Very well, even. During those terrible months of exile at the Cha­teau de Saint-Germain, he never left his mother's side, and would listen to me sing in silence, rapt silence. Often, in empty moments, I would try to distract him, inventing games for him; thus His Majesty recovered his smile."

  I was for a while both galvanised and stunned by my double dis­covery. Not only had this bizarre guest a glorious past as a musician; he had been an intimate of the royal highnesses of France! And, what was more, he was one of those singular prodigies of nature who united with a man's form vocal gifts and a quality of soul that were utterly feminine. I had almost at once noticed that unusual timbre in his voice. But I had not dwelt sufficiently on other details, thinking that here might be a simple sodomite.

  I had, however, chanced upon a castrato. I knew, in truth, that in order to conquer their extraordinary vocal powers, emasculated singers had to undergo a painful and irreversible operation. 1 knew the sad tale of the pious Origen, who had voluntarily parted with his masculine attributes in order to achieve supreme spiritual virtue, and I had heard that Christian doctrine had from the very beginning condemned castration. But fortune would have it that right here in Rome the services of castrati were highly valued and sought after. Everyone knew that the Vatican Chapel was accustomed to employ castrati on a regular basis, and I had sometimes heard the older in­habitants of my quarter comment jestingly on a snatch of song from a washerwoman with the words: "You sing like Rosini," or, "You are bet­ter than Folignato." They were alluding to the castrati who, decades before, had entranced the ears of Pope Clement VIII. Even more often, one heard mention of Loreto Vittori, whose voice had, I knew, the power to bewitch all who heard it. So much so that Pope Urban VIII had appointed him a Knight of the Militia of Christ. Little did it matter that, on several occasions, the Holy See had threatened with excommunication those who practised emasculation. And even less did it matter that the feminine charms of the castrati should perturb spectators. From the chatter and jokes of my contemporaries, I had learned that one need walk only a few dozen paces from the hostelry to find the shop of a complaisant barber who was ever ready to per­form the horrendous mutilation, so long as the reward was adequate and the secret well guarded.

  "Why wonder?" said Melani, calling me back from my silent re­flections. "One should not be surprised that a Queen should pre­fer my voice to that—may God forgive me—of a mere canterina. In Paris, I was often accompanied by an Italian singer, a certain Leonora Baroni, who did try so very hard. Today, no one remembers her. Mark my words, young man: if women are not today permitted to sing in public, as Saint Paul so rightly willed it, that is certainly not a matter of chance."

  He raised his glass as though for a toast, and solemnly recited:

  Toi qui sais mieux que aucun le succes que jadis

  les pieces de musique eurent dedans Paris,

  que dis-tu de Pardeur dont la cour echaujfee

  frondoit en ce temps-la les grands concerts d'Orphee,

  les passages d'Atto et de Leonora,

  et le dechainement qu'on a pour l’Opera?'

  I remained silent, allowing myself no more than a questioning glance.

  "Jean de la Fontaine," said he, emphatically. The greatest poet in France."

  "And, if I heard well, he wrote about you!"

  "Yes. And another poet, a Tuscan this time, said that the singing of Atto Melani could be used as a remedy against a viper's bite."

  "Another poet?"

  "Francesco Redi, the greatest man of letters and science in all

  Tuscany. Such were the muses on whose lips my name travelled, my boy."

  "Do you still appear before the French royal family?"

  "Once youth has vanished, the voice is the first of the body's vir­tues to become unreliable. As a young man, however, I sang in the courts of all Europe, and thus had occasion to make the acquaintance of many princes. Nowadays, they are pleased to ask me for advice, when they must take important decisions."

  "You are then... a counsellor abbot?"

  "Yes, let us say that."

  "You must often be at court, in Paris."

  "The court is now at Versailles, my boy. As for myself, that is a long story."

  And, frowning, he added: "Have you ever heard of Monsieur de Fouquet?"

  The name was, I replied, utterly unknown to me.

  He poured himself another glass of wine and fell silent. His silence caused me no embarrassment. We remained thus awhile, without proffering a word, lulled by a spark of reciprocal sympathy.

  Atto Melani was still dressed as he had been that morning: with his abbot's periwig, hood and grey-mauve soutane. Age (and his did not show) had enveloped him with a fine layer of fat which softened a ra
ther hooked nose and severe features. The white powder on his face, which changed to carmine on his prominent cheeks, spoke of a perennial conflict of instincts; his broad, wrinkled forehead and arched eyebrows suggested a cold and haughty nature. Yet that was only a pose: it was contradicted by the mocking fold in his fine, con­tracted lips and in his slightly receding, but fleshy, chin, in the midst of which sat an impertinent dimple.

  Melani cleared his throat. He drank a last draught and kept the wine in his mouth, letting it smack between his tongue and his palate.

  "We shall make a pact," said he all of a sudden. "You need to know everything. You have not travelled, you have experienced nothing, seen nothing. You are perspicacious; one remarks certain qualities immedi­ately. But without a helping hand at the outset, you will never arrive anywhere. Well, in the twenty days of claustration that lie before us, I can give you all that you need. You, in exchange, will help me."

  I was astounded. "In what way?"

  "What the deuce, to find out who poisoned Monsieur de Mourai!" answered the abbot, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and he gazed at me the while with a little half-smile.

  "Are you certain that this was poisoning?"

  "Absolutely," exclaimed he, standing up and moving around in search of something to else to eat. "The poor old man must have swallowed something lethal. You heard the physician, did you not?"

  "And what does it matter to you?"

  "If we do not stop the assassin in time, he will soon strike down other victims here."

  Fear dried my throat at once, and any remaining appetite aban­doned my poor stomach.

  "By the way," asked Atto Melani, "are you quite sure of what you told Cristofano about the broth which you prepared and served up to Mourai? Is there nothing else that I should know?"

  I repeated to him that I had never taken my eyes off the pan, and I had personally administered the broth, sip by sip, to the gentleman. Any outside intervention must therefore be ruled out.

  "Do you know if he took anything earlier?"

  "I would say not. When I arrived, he had just risen and Dulcibeni had already gone out."

  "And afterwards?"

  "No, I think not. After serving him the broth, I prepared the basin for his foot bath. When I left him, he was dozing."

  "That means only one thing," he concluded.

  "Namely?"

  "That you killed him."

  He smiled at me. He was jesting.

  "I shall serve you in all things," I found myself promising him, with my cheeks on fire, torn between emotion at the challenge which I faced and fear of the danger.

  "Bravo. For a start, you could tell me all that you know about the other guests, and whether, in the last few days, you have noticed any­thing unusual. Have you heard any bizarre conversation? Has anyone been long absent? Have letters been delivered or dispatched?"

  I responded that I knew very little, apart from the fact that Brenozzi, Bedfordi and Stilone Priaso had lodged at the Donzello at the time of the late Signora Luigia. I then mentioned, not without some hesitancy, that it seemed to me that Padre Robleda, the Jesuit, had gone at night to Cloridia's apartments. The abbot simply guf­fawed.

  "My boy, from now on, you will keep your eyes open. Above all, you will watch the two travelling companions of old Mourai, the French musician Robert Devize, and Pompeo Dulcibeni, the Marchigiano."

  He saw that I had lowered my eyes, and continued: "I know what you are thinking: you want to be a gazetteer, not a spy. Know then that the two trades are not so different from one another."

  "But shall I need to know all that you mentioned a moment ago? About the Quietists, the Gallican Articles, and..."

  "That is the wrong question. Some gazetteers have gone far, yet know little: only really important things."

  "And what are those?"

  "Things which they will never write. But we shall speak of that tomorrow. Now let us go and sleep."

  While we were climbing the stairs, I glanced in silence at the ab­bot's white face by the light of the lantern: here was my new master, and I savoured all the excitement of the situation. True, all had come to pass so very suddenly, yet I was vaguely aware that Melani was imbued with a similar secret pleasure at having me for a disciple. At least for as long as the quarantine lasted.

  The abbot turned towards me before we took leave of each other, and smiled. Then he disappeared down the second-floor corridor, without a word.

  I spent a good part of the night sewing together some old clean leaves of paper piled up on the table where my master kept his accounts, and then writing down on these the recent events which I had wit­nessed. I had decided: I would not lose a single word of what Abbot Melani had taught me. I would transcribe it all and conserve it jeal­ously.

  Without the help of those ancient notes today, sixteen years later, I could not be here compiling these memoirs.

  Day the Second

  12th September, 1683

  *

  The morning after, I awoke to a strange surprise. I found Signor Pellegrino asleep on his bed, in the chamber which we shared under the eaves. He had made no preparation whatever for our guests' repast; which, despite our exceptional circumstances, was nevertheless required of him. My master, dressed in the clothes he had worn the evening before, lay sprawled across the bedcovers, showing every sign of having fallen asleep under the influence of some cheap red wine. After rousing him with some difficulty, I went to the kitchen. As I was descending the stairs, I heard, drawing ever nearer, a distant cloud of sounds, confused at first, albeit pleasant. As I drew closer to the entrance of the dining chamber, next to the kitchen, the music grew clearer and more intelligible. It was Signor Devize who, clum­sily perched on a wooden stool, was practising his instrument.

  A strange enchantment overcame all who heard Devize's playing, in which the joy of listening was conjoined with the pleasure of the eyes. His doublet of Isabella-coloured bourette and his unadorned apparel, his eyes whose colour shifted from green to grey, his fine cinder-grey hair: everything in him seemed to give way to the vivid tones which, with extravagant chromatics, he drew from the six strings. Once the last note had vanished into thin air, the enchantment broke; and there before one sat a sulky little red-faced man, almost scorbutic, with minute features, a small nose reaching down towards a fleshy, pouting mouth, the short, bull-like physique of an ancient Teuton, a martial gait and brusque manners.

  He did not pay much attention when I entered and, after a brief pause, resumed his playing. Suddenly, from his fingers, there sprang up no mere music, but an admirable architecture of sounds which to this day I could describe, were heaven to grant me the words, and not just the memory. It began with a simple, innocent air which danced, arpeggiato, from the tonal chord to that of the dominant (thus the virtuoso was later to explain it to me, as yet utterly ignorant of the art of sounds), then reprised that movement, and, after a surprising free cadenza passage, repeated it all. This was, however, only the first of a rich and surprising collection of gems which, as Signor Devize later explained to me, was called a rondeau and which was composed of that same first air, repeated several times, but each time followed by a new precious jewel, utterly original and resplendent in its own light.

  Like every other rondeau, this one, to which I was to listen on many subsequent occasions, was crowned by the extreme and con­clusive repetition of the first stanza, which seemed to endow the whole with meaning and completeness. But, although the innocence and simplicity of that first stanza was utterly delicious, it would have been nothing without the sublime concert of the others which, one after the other, refrain upon refrain, arose ever freer, bolder and more exquisite from that admirable structure; so much so that the last of these was for the intellect and the ears a most sweet and extreme challenge, like those which knights issue to one another over ques­tions of honour. The final arpeggio, after descending prudently, even timidly, towards the bass notes, made a sudden ascent towards the high
notes, then jumped to the highest, transforming its tortuous and timorous advance into a clear river of beauty, into which it loos­ened its long tresses of harmony with an admirable progression to bass. And there it remained, absorbed in mysterious and ineffable harmonies, which to my ear sounded forbidden, even impossible (which is the main reason why words fail me here), and at last moved unwillingly towards peace, making way for the final repetition of the initial stanza.

  I listened rapt, without proffering a word, until the French musi­cian had stilled the last echo from his instrument. He looked at me.

  "You play the lute so well," I ventured timidly.

  "In the first place, this is no lute," he answered, "it is a guitar. And besides, you are not interested in how well I play. You like this mu­sic. One can see from how you listen. And you are right: I am rather proud of this rondeau."