“Yes, I’ve heard of these five classes,” I objected, “but ever since I’ve been here no one has ever asked which one I belong to.”
“Perhaps it’s because you’re a foreigner, and no one has thought of checking up on you. But for the Viennese it’s a very serious question.”
For each class there were detailed rules setting out just how much they were allowed to spend on clothing, eating, public appearances, marrying and even dying.
“I don’t understand: who makes sure that all these rules are respected?” I asked.
“That’s obvious: the inhabitants of Vienna themselves. And the students above all.”
Leopold had instituted a kind of vice squad: a body of spies who infiltrated weddings, parties and even private homes to check that no citizen violated the law. Dànilo Danilovitsch was one of these.
“Students, who are always short of money and have quick minds, are among the best spies,” remarked Simonis.
Authorised spies had a right to a third of the fines levied on transgressors, and so it was to be expected that they would carry out their duties diligently. However, it was not always easy; how could they know, for example, whether a dress cost thirty, fifty or two hundred florins? And so tailors, furriers and embroiderers were hired as well, and they were expected to denounce (under the threat of being punished themselves) clients who ordered clothes not permitted to their respective class. In the same way, legions of cooks and larder servants (known as “pan-peepers”) were enrolled to denounce their gluttonous masters. Carpenters reported orders of luxury items of furniture, cloth merchants those of sumptuous textiles, painters blew the whistle on clients who asked for oversized portraits. Excessive opulence in carriages was denounced by coach drivers and postilions, and so on.
It got to the point that there was no corner in Vienna without a lurking spy, staring at people as they passed and at their boots (were the heels too high?), their faces (French face powder?) or the ladies’ false moles (too numerous on the left cheek?). The result of this proliferation of spies was that suspicion reigned in the kitchens, people looked daggers at one another in tailors’ shops, and in carriages the travellers eyed the attendants as if expecting a stab in the back. Those who were spied on (who obviously took their revenge by spying on others in turn) had to lock their larders to hide an extra piglet, or their cellars to conceal their padded armchairs, or they had to bury their youngest daughter’s gold ring in the garden. Besides, who could possibly remember all the prohibitions? On feast days jewels and coiffures were not supposed to cost more than six hundred florins for the first class, three hundred for the second, from twenty to thirty for the third, from fifteen to twenty for the fourth and four kreutzer for the fifth. A wretched, illiterate fieldworker of the fifth class had to be careful not to own towels costing over a florin and thirty kreutzer, scarves and hats over a florin, and not to order meals or banquets for over fifteen florins, or five florins if for children, and woe to anyone who overspent by a single cent. You practically had to live with your nose buried in a notebook full of figures, only raising your eyes to check if your neighbour had broken some rule so that you could denounce him.
Life had become hell, which was certainly not what Leopold had wanted for his subjects. But above all, the Viennese, who have a natural sagacity and like to live peacefully, had realised that what they could get from spying on people was worth much less than the freedom they had lost. All the more so, since noblemen, ministers and high prelates, exempt from Leopold’s prohibitions, continued to stuff themselves, to throw parties and to dress up just as they liked. Indeed, it was fashionable to be round-bellied (a mark of prestige and wealth); topped by the tall curly wigs then in vogue, these bellies gave the ruling class an unmistakeable pear shape.
“So how do you explain,” I objected, “that in the peasants’ homes in the suburbs, where you and I go to clean their chimneys, we see cutlery in carved ivory, magnificent ceramic plates, curtains and tablecloths with wonderful lacework, ornamented glasses, luxurious armchairs and stoves decorated with refined craftsmanship? You’ve seen it all yourself: even the country cottages always have full larders, and the smells that come from the oven make you faint with hunger.”
“Things have greatly improved,” said Simonis.
Tired of all this spying, he explained, the Viennese had begun to turn a blind eye on their neighbours’ offences. Leopold, who had issued the first decree in 1659, had had to repeat it in 1671, in 1686, in 1687 and twice more, because his citizens by now turned a deaf ear, and smart people had found ways to get round the rules by circulating luxury goods under the names of more modest articles.
“So you’ll easily understand, Signor Master, that when the old Emperor Leopold died, after reigning for fifty years, the Viennese heaved a great sigh of relief. And spies like Dànilo began to earn a little less than before, because things had become more tolerant, especially with Joseph who is the exact opposite of his father – he loves luxury, beauty and splendour.”
“How do you know that Dànilo is a spy? Isn’t it supposed to be a secret trade?”
“Signor Master, nothing escapes the trained eye of a student. And we’re his companions: there are too many of us for him to get away with anything under our noses.”
“It’s certainly not an activity that confers any honour on a student, that of Dànilo Danilovitsch; particularly on a count, even if he is as poor as a church mouse,” I remarked sceptically.
“But Dànilo is a Pontevedrin count, Signor Master, and Pontevedro is in half-Asia, you remember?” he answered with a sly smile. “Just like this donkey, my Pennal. Isn’t it true, Penicek, that you’re a half-Asiatic beast? Nod, Pennal!”
Poor Penicek turned and nodded towards us.
“More, Pennal! And look happy!” the Greek rebuked him.
Penicek obeyed and began to jerk his head affirmatively, smiling idiotically the while.
“Yes, Simonis, I remember that you referred briefly to Half-Asia during the Deposition,” I said, watching this performance rather uneasily, but not wanting to interfere as it was a student matter. “You said that the lands on the borders of Asia, like Pontevedro, are very different from ours, I think.”
“In them European culture meets with Asiatic barbarism,” answered Simonis, turning serious, “Western ambition with Eastern indolence, European humaneness with the wild and cruel conflict between nations and religions. Signor Master: to you or me, who are Europeans, it would sound not only alien, but unheard of and incredible. With those people you can never trust in appearances. But now we must break off, Signor Master: we’re here.”
We got down from Penicek’s cart and made our way up a stone staircase. It led up to a large open area at the top of the city walls, looking over the Glacis, the open plain that surrounds the city and separates it from the suburb of the Josephina.
“We’ve often met here, Dànilo’s companions, and . . . strange, I can’t see him.” Simonis looked in all directions. “He’s usually very punctual. Wait, I’ll go and look for him.”
Dànilo Danilovitsch had chosen for the meeting place a secluded spot on the city ramparts. The fortified walls were almost entirely accessible; unfortunately they were notorious for the shady dealings that took place there at night. The soldiers of the city’s garrison took advantage of the darkness for secret wine trading, and also for encounters with the numerous young women of loose morals who traded their own bodies on the ramparts. But that evening was so cold, with a freezing wind mercilessly lashing the ramparts, that no soldiers or prostitutes were to be seen.
Simonis had been away for a good quarter of an hour now. What the devil had happened? I was about to go and look for him when I saw his shadowy figure emerging from the darkness.
“Signor Master! Signor Master, run, quickly!” he whispered in a choked voice.
I ran with my assistant to the terrace of a nearby rampart, where a vague dark shape was stretched on the ground.
“Oh my God,�
�� I moaned when I recognised the shape as a human body, and its face as that of a large, bulky youth: Dànilo Danilovitsch.
“What’s happened to him?” I asked, panting from the shock and the fear of being involved in a murder.
“They’ve stabbed him, Signor Master, look here,” he said, opening the greatcoat. “It’s soaked in blood. They must have stabbed him at least twenty times.”
“Oh my God, we must get him away from . . . What are you doing?”
I stopped. Simonis had pulled a little flask containing liquid from his pocket and was holding it under Dànilo’s nose.
“I’m seeing if he sneezes. It’s rue juice: if he sneezes, the wounds aren’t fatal; if he doesn’t react, it means there’s nothing we can do.”
Unfortunately the young Pontevedrin did not move.
“My God . . .” I moaned.
“Shhh!” the Greek silenced me.
Dànilo was saying something. It was a weak gasp, and as the breath left his mouth, turning into vapour in the cold air, it looked as if his soul were deserting him.
“Zivio . . . Zivio . . .” he muttered.
“It’s a Pontevedrin greeting,” explained Simonis. “He’s raving.”
“The Apple, the Golden Apple . . . the forty thousand of Kasim . . .” the student added.
“Who stabbed you, Dànilo?” I asked.
“Let him talk, Signor Master,” Simonis interrupted me again.
“. . . the cry of the forty thousand martyrs . . .” he went on raving.
Simonis and I looked at each other in desperation. It seemed that Dànilo had just a few moments of life left.
“The Apple . . . Simonis, the Golden Apple . . . of Vienna and the Pope . . . We’ll meet again at the Golden Apple . . .”
It sounded like a farewell.
It was the Greek who then urged the dying man:
“Dànilo, listen! Resist, curse it! Who did you talk to about the Golden Apple? And who are the forty thousand of Kasim?”
He did not answer. Suddenly his breathing grew faster:
“The cry . . . of the forty thousand, every Friday . . . The Golden Apple in Constantinople . . . in Vienna . . . in Rome . . . Eyyub found it.”
Then his breath was cut short, he stretched his neck upwards and opened his eyes as if a celestial vision had appeared to him in mid-air. Finally he had a spasm, and his head, which we were holding up more out of pity than for any useful purpose, fell back. Simonis compassionately lowered his eyelids.
“Oh my God,” I moaned, “how are we going to carry him away?”
“We’ll leave him here, Signor Master. If we carry him away the guards will stop us and we’ll get into real trouble,” said Simonis, standing up.
“But we can’t, he must be buried . . .” I protested, thoroughly shaken.
“The garrison will see to it tomorrow, Signor Master. Students drink a lot at night, they challenge one another to duels. In the morning they often find corpses,” said Simonis, tugging me by the lapel, while the wind grew stronger on the bastions and almost howled in our ears.
“But his relatives . . .”
“He didn’t have anyone, Signor Master. Dànilo is dead, and no one can do anything right now,” said Simonis, dragging me down the staircase that led away from the bastions, while what had seemed mere wind became a tempest, and on Vienna, unexpectedly, there began to descend, merciful and gentle, the white benediction of snow.
Day the Fourth
SUNDAY, 12 APRIL 1711
Like a sleeping giant, the Place with No Name lay quietly under the blanket of the snow. As I crossed the great garden with its hexagonal towers, myriads of immaculate flakes pirouetted earthwards in a graceful dance. There was no wind, the air was sharp and still as in a memory. The pinnacles of the towers, like minarets, were adorned with fantastic pearly caprices.
As I approached the front of the manor house, I had to shield my eyes against the blinding glare of the alabaster stone, intensified by the reflecting snow and milky-white sky. I turned to the right, went beyond the maior domus and reached the courtyard of the main entrance. Here I went down the spiral staircase that led to the cages where the wild beasts were held.
The snow came down on my head like a blessing, everything gleamed as in heaven. Even the naked trees, with their claw-like, crooked branches seemed softened by all this whiteness. As I descended the spiral staircase I caught glimpses through the windows of the fish pond in the garden north of the Place with No Name, sealed by a light stratum of ice, as opalescent as almond paste and as crisp as a biscuit.
I reached the lion cage. Frosch was waiting for me.
“Mustafa has escaped,” he announced. “He went into the ball stadium and disappeared.”
How could that be? I let him lead me to the stadium, wondering whether Frosch had had one too many drinks again, and had forgotten where he had left his favourite lion.
“There, that’s where it happened.”
He pointed to the Flying Ship, lying as ever on its belly in the middle of the ball stadium. In the whirl of events in the last few hours I had almost forgotten its existence.
I looked back at Frosch, my doubts clear from my expression. A lion does not disappear just like that.
But since the guardian of the Place with No Name continued to point towards the old airship (if it had in fact ever flown), I decided to have a look.
“If Mustafa should turn up come and help me at once,” I told Frosch.
I walked all the way around the Flying Ship. Nothing. On the snow there were indeed the old lion’s paw prints, but they disappeared just where I was standing, next to one of the two large wings.
So I climbed up on the wing, went aboard and began to explore the living quarters in the middle of the ship. It was at that moment that it all started.
At first it was a slight pitching, then a vigorous shudder, which increased rhythmically. It was as if the tail and wings of the Flying Ship were radiating powerful jolts through the wooden structure, and these were passed on to the rest of the ship, making it creak. Suddenly the vibrations ceased.
Frosch gazed at me attentively, but without any surprise. The ship was rising.
Instinctively grabbing hold of a wooden handrail, I saw the prominent walls of the ball stadium dropping away, and the horizon broadening, and the roof of the Place with No Name coming towards me, and the indistinct glimmer of the winter landscape bursting open, like the gates of heaven, and the blessed light of the sky pouring in on all sides – around, above and below me. The Flying Ship, at last, had taken flight again. I heard the creak of the tiller. I turned round and saw him: the black helmsman was gazing straight ahead, as he steered the ship through the airy billows with a confident hand. But he soon left the tiller, which continued to move by itself, as if governed by an invisible spirit, bending down and reappearing with a violin. Skilfully handling the bow he modulated the first notes of a motif I knew. In that instant I recognised him: it was Albicastro, the violinist I had met years ago in the Villa of the Vessel, and the music was the Portuguese folia he was always playing.
And I realised that it was true, the gazette Frosch had shown me had not lied: two years earlier that old craft had indeed flown, and had circled the bell tower of St Stephen, brushing against the pinnacle on which was perched the Golden Apple. And its mysterious helmsman was no Brazilian priest, but none other than Giovanni Henrico Albicastro, the Flying Dutchman and his Phantom Vessel, as Atto Melani, petrified with terror, had called him the first time we saw him, apparently held in the air by his mantle of black gauze above the Vessel’s crenellated walls.
But now that my eyes were ranging over the gardens of the Place with No Name, the snow-covered plain of Simmering, and the distant roofs of Vienna and the spire of St Stephen’s, and even as I walked up to Albicastro who was playing his folia and smiling at me, and I wanted to re-embrace him, everything ended. Behind me I heard a new juddering, a sort of dull, hostile growling. “I should have guessed it: he
was hiding in here,” I said to myself in a flash of intuition, as I turned round and suddenly felt his warm, inhuman breath upon me. Mustafa growled once, twice, thrice, his right paw lashed out at me and his claws struck my cheek, ripping it to shreds. Before it all ended, another yell – mine – rose desperately, and at last I woke up.
No one could jerk me out of this nightmare but myself, and I had managed it. The sheets were soaked in sweat, my face was as hot as Mustafa’s breath, my hands and feet as cold as the snow in the dream. It was not enough for the Place with No Name to fill my thoughts during the day; now it had to invade my nights as well. It was as if Neugebäu had too many secrets to be classified among the reasonable things of this world.
Cloridia had already got up with our little boy and had gone out. They were undoubtedly waiting for me to go to mass. Praise be to God, I thought; prayer and communion would save me from the aberrations of nocturnal shades once and for all.
5.30 of the clock: first mass. From now on the bells will ring in succession throughout the day, announcing masses, processions, devotions. Eating houses and alehouses open.
As I got ready, I heard a gentle rap of knuckles on our door. A discreet hand had slipped a note under it. Atto was summoning me urgently: we were to attend morning mass together at St Agnes in Porta Coeli, the convent’s church.
The sudden April snow shower, rare but not impossible in Vienna, had covered the whole city and the suburbs with a thick and graceful mantle, just as in my dream. I set off with Cloridia and our little boy towards Via Rauhenstein, or Road of the Rough Stone, the street that ran alongside the convent, where the main entrance to the church of St Agnes was. We found Atto and Domenico waiting at the entrance to the nave. I noticed with surprise that the Abbot, although wearing different clothes from those of the day before, was once again dressed in green and black, almost as if he had refurbished his entire wardrobe with just those two colours.
Veritas (Atto Melani) Page 25