Imprimatur (5 page)

In the meanwhile, the hubbub in the entrance had died down and we were soon rejoined by my master and all those who had engaged in that lengthy and useless waste of their strength. Cristofano's recent pronouncement was explained to them, which raised everyone's spir­its, except my master's.

"I'll kill them, I'll kill them all," said he, again losing his temper.

He added that this misfortune had ruined him, for no one would ever again come to the Donzello, nor of course would it be possible to sell the hostelry's business, which had already been devalued by that accursed crack in the wall, and he would have to use up all his credit to obtain another such; in short, he would soon be poor and ruined, ruined forever, but first he would tell all to the College of Innkeep­ers, ah yes, even if they all knew that it was quite useless, quoth he, contradicting himself over and over, and I understood that he had unfortunately been at the Greco wine again.

The doctor continued: "We shall have to gather all the old man's blankets and clothing and tip them into the street when the dead- cart comes to collect the corpse."

He then turned to Pompeo Dulcibeni: "Did you meet or hear of infected persons coming from Naples?"

"Absolutely not."

The gentleman from the Marches seemed to be experiencing dif­ficulty in hiding how deeply perturbed he was by his friend's death, which had, moreover, occurred in his absence. A veil of perspiration covered his forehead and his cheeks. The physician questioned him concerning a number of details: whether the old man had eaten regu­larly, whether his bodily functions were regular, whether he had been of melancholy humour; all in all, whether he had shown any signs of suffering other than those normally present in one of advanced age. But Dulcibeni was aware of no such thing. The man was rather mas­sive, always wearing a black great-coat; but above all made to look awkward and cumbersome by a very old gorget of Flemish lace (as I believe must have been the fashion many, many years ago) and by his bulging paunch. This, together with his florid complexion, made one suspect a propensity for food not inferior to my master's for the Greco wine. Thick hair, now almost all white, a tendency to take umbrage, a slightly fatigued tone of voice and a grave and pensive expression conferred on him the semblance of an honest and temper­ate man. Only with the passing of time and closer observation was I to see in his severe blue-green eyes and ever-frowning eyebrows the reflection of a concealed and ineradicable bitterness.

Dulcibeni said that he had met the late Signor di Mourai quite by chance, in the course of a voyage, and he did not know much about him. Together with Signor Devize, he had accompanied him from Naples; for the old man, being almost completely blind, was in need of assistance. Signor Devize, the musician and guitar player, had, affirmed Dulcibeni (with Devize nodding agreement), come to Italy to acquire a new instrument from a Neapolitan lute-maker. Later, he had expressed the desire to stay in Rome in order to learn the most recent musical styles, before returning to Paris.

"What will happen if we go out before the end of the quarantine?" I asked.

"Attempting to flee is the least advisable solution," replied Cristofano, "since all the ways out are sealed, including the passage that leads from the tower where Monna Cloridia lives on to the roof. The windows are too high or have been covered with grating, and the watch is patrolling below. What is more, attempting to escape from quarantine incurs an exceedingly severe punishment, and one would be imprisoned under far worse conditions for years and years. The people of the quarter would help recapture any fugitive."

Evening shadows were falling, and I distributed lamps and oil.

"Let us endeavour to keep up our spirits," added the Tuscan chirurgeon, looking meaningfully at my master. "We must give the impression that all goes perfectly with us. If nothing changes, I shall not examine you—not unless you so request. Should there be other cases of ill health, I shall have to do so for the sake of us all. Warn me if ever you feel unwell, even if it seems to be a mere trifle. For the time being, however, it will do no good to worry, for this man," said he, pointing at the inert body of Signor di Mourai, "did not die of the plague."

"What, then, did he die of?" asked Abbot Melani.

"Not of plague, I repeat."

'And how do you know, Doctor?" responded the abbot, distrustfully.

"We are still in summer and it is quite hot. If this were plague, it would be of the summer variety, which is caused by the corruption of natural heat and provokes fevers and headaches. In such cases, the cadavers at once become black and hot, and present tokens that are also black and putrescent. But this man has not the shadow of a token, or an abscess, a botch, a swelling or whatever you might wish to call it; neither under the armpits, nor behind the ears, nor in the groin. There was no rise in temperature, nor burning. And, from what his companions have told me, he seemed quite well until within hours of his death. That, as far as I am concerned, is sufficient to rule out contagion with the plague."

"Then it is another illness," replied Melani.

"I repeat: in order to understand that, it would be necessary to have recourse to anatomy: to open up the body and examine it from the inside; in other words, as the chirurgeons do in Holland. On the face of it, I could diagnose an acute attack of putrid fevers, which shows no signs until it is too late for any remedy. Yet I can find no sign of putrefaction on the body or bad odours other than those of death or old age. I might perhaps suppose it to be the malady of
mazzuco,
or
modoro,
as the Spaniards call it: that causes an aposteme, which is to say, an abscess within the brain, and is thus invisible. And once that is present, death must ensue. If, on the other hand, the illness is at the stage of its initial symptoms, it can be easily remedied. Had I been informed of it even a few days ago, I might perhaps have been able to save him. It would have sufficed to bleed one of the two veins under the tongue, to administer in his beverage an infinitesimal quantity of oil of vitriol, and to anoint stomach and head with holy oil. But, as far as we can see, old Mourai showed no signs of being unwell. Be­sides..."

"Besides?" urged Melani.

"Mazzuco
certainly does not cause a swelling of the tongue," con­cluded the chirurgeon with a telling grimace. Perhaps it is... some­thing very like poison."

Poison. While the physician returned to his chamber, each of us contemplated the corpse in silence. For the first time, the Jesuit made the sign of the cross. Master Pellegrino renewed his imprecations, cursing the misfortune of having a dead man in his hostelry and, what is more, one who had perhaps been poisoned. And who would have the courage to hear what his wife would have to say, on her return?

Talk then spread among the guests about the most notorious cases of poisoning, real or presumed: prominent among these were sovereigns of former times: Charles the Bald, for example, or Lothar, the King of the Franks and his son Louis; or, approaching modern times, th
e
acqua tofana
laced with arsenic, or the Spanish fly, both em­ployed by the Borgias for their abominable crimes, as well as by the Valois and the Guises in their conspiracies. A shameful trembling ran through the group, for poison and fear are born of the same parents. Someone recalled how Henry of Navarre, before he became King Henry IV of France, was wont himself to go down to the banks of the Seine to draw the water which he drank at his meals, fearing that he might fall victim to toxic potions. Did not John of Austria die from wearing poisoned boots? Stilone Priaso recalled how Catherine de' Medici had poisoned Jeanne d Albret, the mother of Henry IV using perfumed gloves and collars, and how she had attempted to repeat the exercise by offering her own son a marvellous book on hunting, the pages of which were a little gummed together, so that he, licking his fingers to turn them, would imbibe the fatal Italian poison with which they were impregnated.

Such murderous preparations had, asserted another guest, been the province of perfumers and astrologers. And someone dusted off the tale of how Saint-Barthelemy, the servant of the ill-famed Prior of Cluny, had killed the Cardinal of Lorraine by paying him in poisoned gold coin. Henry of Luxembourg died—O subtle blas­phemy!—of poison concealed in the consecrated host with which he took Communion.

Now, Stilone Priaso began to parley closely with one guest after another, admitting that so many fantastic things had always been said about poets and those who practised the art of fine writing; but he was only a poet, and born for poetry, may God pardon his immodesty!

They then all turned to me and began again to belabour me with questions about the broth which I had served Signor di Mourai that morning. I had to repeat several times that absolutely no one but myself had been near the dish. Only with difficulty were they at last convinced, and they then ceased paying attention to me.

I noticed all of a sudden that the only one to have left the com­pany was Abbot Melani. It was late now, and I resolved to go down to the kitchen in order to wash up.

In the corridor, I almost collided with the young Englishman, Si­gnor di Bedfordi, who struck me as being rather agitated; perhaps because, having transferred his effects to a new chamber, he had not been present for the chirurgeon's diagnosis. This guest was dragging himself along slowly and seemed unusually afflicted. When I stopped in front of him, he gave a start.

"It is I, Signor Bedfordi," I reassured him.

He looked dumbly, lost in his daydreams, at the lamp I bore in my hand. For the first time, he had abandoned his usual phlegmatic pose, which gave away his affected and haughty nature, one that caused him to be repelled (and he often gave me proof thereof) by my serv­ant's simplicity. Born of an Italian mother, Bedfordi had no difficulty expressing himself in our language. On the contrary, his eloquence, in the conversations that accompanied their meals, was much appreci­ated by the other guests.

His silence that evening therefore struck me all the more. I ex­plained to him that, in the doctor's opinion, there was no cause for anxiety, since this was certainly not a case of plague. It was, however, suspected that Mourai might have ingested a poison.

He stared at me, with his mouth hanging half open, and answered not a word. He retreated several paces, then turned round and re­turned to his chamber, where I heard him lock himself in.

*

"Forget it, my boy."

This time it was my turn to be startled. I found myself facing Ab­bot Melani, who had come down from the second floor.

"I am hungry. Kindly accompany me to the kitchen."

"If you please, Sir, first I should tell Master Pellegrino. He has forbidden me to draw on provisions outside regular luncheon and supper hours."

"Never fear, your Master Pellegrino is now hard at it with Madam Bottle."

"And Doctor Cristofano's orders?"

"Those were not orders, but prudent advice; which I regard as superfluous."

He preceded me downstairs, where the dining chamber and the kitchen were situated. In the latter, to satisfy his request, I found a little bread and cheese and a beaker of red wine. We sat down at the work table where I and my master usually ate.

"Tell me, where do you come from?" he asked me, as he began to partake of his refreshment.

Flattered by his curiosity, I recounted briefly the story of my mis­erable life. At a few months of age, I had been abandoned and left outside a convent near Perugia. The nuns had then entrusted me to a pious woman who lived in the neighbourhood. When I grew up, I was brought to Rome, where I was placed in the service of that wom­an's brother, the parish priest of Santa Maria in Posterula, the little church not far from the hostelry. After employing me on a number of minor tasks, the priest recommended me to Signor Pellegrino, before he himself was transferred outside Rome.

"So now you are an apprentice," said the abbot.

"Yes, but I hope not forever."

"You would, I imagine, like to have your own inn."

"No, Signor Abbot. I would like to become a gazetteer."

"Now, that is a fine one," said he with a mischievous smile.

I explained to him that the pious and kindly woman to whom I had been entrusted had arranged for me to be instructed by a former serving maid. That old woman, who had previously been in a nun­nery, had initiated me into the arts of the
Trivium
and the
Quadrivium,
in the sciences
de vegetalibus, de animalibus
and
de mineralibus,
in
humanae litterae
, in Philosophy and in Theology. She had then made me read many historians and grammarians, as well as Italian, Span­ish and French poets. Yet, more even than arithmetic, geometry, music, astronomy, grammar, logic and rhetoric, I grew passionately interested in the things of this world, and, most of all, my spirit was inflamed by the telling of the exploits and successes, both near and far, of princes and reigning monarchs and of wars and other admirable things which...

"Good, good," he interrupted me, "so you want to become a gaz­etteer, or scribe, if you prefer. Men of wit often end up engaged in that trade. How did the idea come to you?"

I was often sent on errands to Perugia, I replied. In town, if I was fortunate enough to be present on the right day, I could listen to the public reading of gazettes, and for two pence one could purchase (but this one could in Rome, too) broadsheets with many notable descriptions of the most recent occurrences in Europe...

"My goodness, young man, I have never come across one like you!"

"Thank you, Sir."

"Are you not rather too learned for a mere scullion? Those of your kind usually do not even know how to hold a pen," said he, grimacing.

That remark upset me.

"You are very intelligent," he added, softening his tone. "And I un­derstand you: at your age, I too was fascinated by the scribbler's trade. But I had so many things to do. To write skilfully for newspapers is indeed a great art, and always better than working. "And then," he added between one mouthful and the next, "to be a gazetteer in Rome is most exalting. You will know all about the question of the franchises, the Gallican controversy, Quietism..."

"Yes, I believe that... is so," I murmured, trying in vain to conceal my ignorance.

"Some things, young man, one must needs know. Otherwise, about what will you write? But of course, you are too young. And then, whatever could one write about these days in this half-dead city? You should have seen the splendour of Rome formerly, indeed, only a few years ago. Music, theatres, academies, the introduction of ambassadors, processions, balls: all was refulgent with a wealth, an abundance that you can scarcely imagine."

"And why is it no longer so today?"

"The grandeur and felicity of Rome ended with the ascension of this Pope, and they will return only with his death. Theatrical per­formances are forbidden, the Carnival has been suppressed. Can you not see it with your own eyes? The churches are neglected, the pal­aces are crumbling, the streets are full of potholes and the aqueducts are close to collapse. The master builders, architects and workmen are all returning to their own countries. The writing and reading of those handbills and broadsheets, for which so you have such a passion, are prohibited, although that ban is not always complied with; punish­ments are even harsher than in former times. Even for Christina of Sweden, who came to Rome abjuring the religion of Luther for our own, no longer are there festivities at the Barberini Palace, or spectacles at the Teatro Tor di Nona. Since the accession of Pope Innocent XI, even Queen Christina has had to cloister herself in her palace."

"In the past, did you live here in Rome?"

"Yes, for a time," he replied, then suddenly corrected himself, "indeed, more than once. I arrived in Rome in 1644, when I was only eighteen and studied with the best masters. I had the honour to be a pupil of the divine Luigi Rossi, the greatest European composer of all time. Then, in the Palazzo alle Quattro Fontane, the Barberini had a theatre with three thousand places and the theatre of the Colonna family in the Palazzo al Borgo was the envy of all the reigning Houses. The artists who designed the scenes bore the most celebrated names, and included even Gian Lorenzo Bernini himself, and the stage astonished, kindled the emotions and entertained, with apparitions of rain, suns setting, bolts of lightning, real living animals, duels with real wounds and real blood, palaces more palatial than real ones and gardens with fountains from which gushed fresh, clear water."

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?"