Veritas (Atto Melani) (74 page)

Some pages were marked by little strips of paper. I opened at one of these markers and read:

I raised my eyebrows in wonder. Rather than a book of natural science it seemed to be a riddle. I went on to the next bookmark, and tried again:

“Damn it, this is totally incomprehensible,” I exclaimed impatiently, giving the book to the Bohemian.

Penicek received the book still open at the page where I had read this last passage, adjusted his glasses on his nose, read through these lines, and finally, with a contrite air, passed it to
Opalinski, who, after reading it through, declared: “It’s perfectly clear.”

“What’s perfectly clear?”

“Summarising very roughly, clouds are not made of a particular substance, but of a certain vaporous mist. Since air is mobile, this mist can be lifted and moved.”

“But I know this!” I protested.

“Well, Signor Master,” replied Opalinski, remaining unruffled, “at this point another work by Montalbani might be useful to us, the
Brontology
, which examines with
most fertile acumen all the secrets of thunder, lightning flashes and thunderbolts. But as time is short, it will be better to consider directly the work of another author, a compatriot of
Montalbani, master of great science and doctrine, the most learned and glorious Doctor Geminiano Montanari.”

He picked from the pile a tattered little book with a curious title and handed it to me:

I turned it round uncertainly in my hands.

“And so?” I asked, not even bothering to try to read it.

Opalinski took the book back and opened it at one of the usual strips of paper, then handed it back to me.

“It’s one of the most exquisitely erudite books of the great master,” he informed me.

I looked. There were two illustrations that were, for once, very clear:

“Here, do you see? This is the ship, and the whirling current of a vortex is approaching. These vortices, also known as waterspouts, can flatten homes, churches, bell
towers or even lift entire buildings with all the people inside.”

Then he pointed at the second picture.

“You see? Here the sailing ship has been picked up and – whish! – carried up into the sky.”

Simonis looked at me in utter amazement.

“I know about whirlwinds,” I said, “and their devastating effects.”

Opalinski and Penicek nodded.

“A thousand thanks, Jan, for your valuable help,” said the Greek, looking highly satisfied. “Signor Master, may I leave you a moment?” he asked. “I’ll just
take my friends to my room and come straight back.”

I nodded.

“And you, take your hat off, idiotic Pennal! Say goodbye properly to Signor Master, you grinning ape!” he said, cuffing the poor cripple on the head. The latter humbly and contritely
bowed several times, supporting himself awkwardly on his lame leg.

A few minutes later my assistant was back.

“In short, Signor Master,” he began, smiling radiantly, “the Flying Ship could have been taken and lifted into the air by one of those whirlwinds or vortices or tornadoes or
whatever they’re called, which can swallow up entire fleets, lift them up, transport them to some other place and set them down on the ground, without the crew being harmed at all.”

“Yes, and the Flying Ship is much smaller and lighter than the vessels that sometimes get lifted by waterspouts,” I added thoughtfully.

The Greek nodded with satisfaction.

“But . . .” I objected, “was there any wind, when we took off from the ball stadium?”

Simonis was silent.

“I don’t think so,” I answered myself.

“No, there wasn’t,” he confirmed, already less self-assured.

“Were there any great gusts, or any especially swirling currents?” I insisted.

“Well, no. No, there wasn’t anything like that,” he admitted.

“So it is highly improbable that the Flying Ship rose into the air because of a whirlwind,” I concluded.

“Highly is the right word, Signor Master, very good,” Simonis complimented me.

I said nothing for an instant, to be sure that my assistant had no other arguments. He had not. With a tinge of melancholy I looked at the pile of books Opalinski had gathered together. My
assistant was picking them up to replace them in Penicek’s cloth bag.

“Just one question, Simonis: why does Jan Janitzki understand what’s written in those books and you don’t?”

“Simple, Signor Master: he studies.”

I was about to ask him what he did do at the university, but I refrained; he had already explained all too clearly what the real occupations of Viennese students were.

When the Greek had closed the door behind himself, I turned towards Atto. He was still snoring, with his head bent awkwardly and stiffly to one side.

He was lucky! Old age deprived him of the strength needed to face distress, and consigned him into the oblivious arms of Morpheus. In the past he would have racked his brains ceaselessly over
what was happening, just as I was doing. I was at a loss. Nothing seemed to make any recognisable and logical sense, but at the same time I could not afford to overlook anything and risk losing the
thread of my actions and ending up involved in some disaster. Having escaped a death sentence for espionage on behalf of France, I now risked being accused of complicity in a series of murders, or
of shady manoeuvres against Prince Eugene and his Ottoman guests.

And I thought: Cloridia and I had arrived in Vienna to turn our lives around. We had left the city of popes with all its illusions: Rome the turbid, Rome the duplicitous, Rome the cold
stepmother, heedless of its children. In the Caesarean city we had felt we were breathing pure, fresh air. But now the carriage of our existence seemed to be mired once again in the marsh of
suspicion, ambiguity and deceit. Even the diabolical Abbot Melani, sheltering behind his dark glasses, could hardly keep up with matters.

Oh, Flying Ship, I suddenly said to myself, oh Ark of Truth, did you raise me to the heavens only to delude me? I had fled the mud of Rome; I was once again trudging through the murky swamp of
the possible.

“They start at three in the morning with a soup containing three eggs and spices. At five, cream of three eggs and chicken soup. At seven, a couple of fresh eggs. At
nine, egg yolk soup with spices and a good few pancakes, plus a goblet of aromatic wine from Traminer. At midday roast capon and other birds, wild cockerel and wine, with assorted types of bread.
At one o’clock a couple of baked cakes and more wine. At three, a snack with roast capon, a dish of fried fishes, with wine, bread and mixed dumplings. At five a good egg pie, with wine. For
dinner: from five to six courses, including boiled and roast meat, freshwater fish. At seven another good chicken soup. At nine a frying pan full of baked cakes, bread, wine and assorted loaves. At
midnight, another egg yolk soup with spices. Can you believe it?” exclaimed Cloridia.

The first chamberlain’s wife had given birth to a beautiful boy. My gentle consort had just returned from Prince Eugene’s palace. Now she could take up her post with Abbot Melani
again and relieve me of my duties. As Atto was snoring, my wife recounted the birth to me. Immediately after delivery, the mother had begun, after the Viennese fashion, to gorge herself on every
possible delicacy.

“I said to her: do you really want to guzzle all that stuff? It’s not a calf you’re suckling. Do you know what she replied? That where she comes from, in Lower Austria, new
mothers eat much more. Immediately after birth, what with snacks, luncheons and dinners, they stuff themselves 24 times in 24 hours. Not to mention the parties after the baby’s born: to
celebrate a birth it’s considered an offence to the guests to consume anything less than 110 pounds of lard, 60 of butter, from 1,000 to 2,000 eggs, 120 pounds of breadcrumbs and an entire
barrel of aromatic wine from Traminer.”

While Cloridia chattered away, all afire as she always was after a successful delivery, my mind was on other things. The first chamberlain’s wife: it was she who had told Cloridia that
Prince Eugene kept the piece of paper with the Agha’s mysterious utterance in his personal diary.

It was true that the Turks now seemed to have little to do with the Emperor’s illness, but if we wanted to know just what the Agha’s phrase concealed, perhaps all that remained was
to have a look at the paper on which it was written. At this point anything was worth trying.

I waited for my wife to conclude her rant and I went on to tell her, in a low voice so as not to wake Atto, what had happened so far that day: the Abbot’s confession, Kara Mustafa’s
head and the rest.

“I had thought of that myself,” Cloridia said at the end. “Perhaps the phrase needs to be interpreted in a different way. Perhaps it’s a secret code, or maybe the paper
the Agha read from, the one he gave to Eugene, contained something else.”

“Do you think you could get hold of that piece of paper from your new mother, even for just an hour?”

“I told you, I had already thought of that!” she answered, and pulled it from her pocket.