I rushed to the door and then into the street, in pursuit of the corpisantaro.
It was too late. By the time I reached Porta Coeli Street, Ugonio had already vanished. I went as far as Carinthia Street, turned back and explored the side roads: nothing.
Back at the convent, I reported my discovery to Abbot Melani.
“Al. Ursinum? Of course, it’s perfectly clear.”
Ugonio had become especially nervous when his collection of keys had been confiscated. With it he had also lost his weekly memorandum, in which he revealed that the head he wanted to palm off on Ciezeber was not that of Kara Mustafa, but some quite different person. The dervish had threatened Ugonio with reprisals should he not keep his assignment secret; one can only imagine what would happen if he were to discover he had been cheated.
But it was the word “Ursinum” that was most deeply worrying: it could only indicate the Latinised name of Gaetano Orsini, the castrated protagonist of Sant’ Alessio. And the abbreviation “Al.” obviously stood for “Alessio”: the name of the oratorio in which Orsini played the role of protagonist. Less clear, but by no means secondary, was the identity of the two hanged men.
What on earth did Ugonio have to do with Orsini? What could a professional sneak thief have in common with a celebrated tenor, a friend of Camilla de’ Rossi, who was actually close to the Emperor? Did the two have an appointment, or even some secret agreement?
Perhaps, quite simply, Orsini was another collector of relics, I told myself, and Ugonio had an appointment to sell him one of his “rare pieces”. But in that case why would the corpisantaro have been so reluctant to tell us about it? With a covetous expression, he had defined his next engagement, after the delivery of the head to Ciezeber, as “urgentitious and appeteasing”: if he had nothing to hide, he would have said whom he was meeting. I had just informed him that I went to the Caesarean chapel every evening for the rehearsals of Sant’ Alessio, so he knew very well that I was acquainted with Gaetano Orsini!
No, Orsini and Ugonio were hiding something. It was as if the devil and holy water were being mixed together, light and dark, nothing and everything. Or maybe it was all too predictable: wasn’t the musical world traditionally a den of spies? Was it not obvious that spies should get together with swindlers? Yes. But who were the two hanged men? We had just heaved a sigh of relief over the head the dervish had demanded, and along came two more corpses!
“So Ugonio is in league with Gaetano Orsini, that beggarly Sant’ Alessio,” exclaimed Melani. “Damnation! And just think we had the filthy corpisantaro in our hands just a moment ago.”
“He won’t abandon his keys, Signor Atto,” I consoled him. “As soon as he comes back we’ll question him closely on the contents of the note.”
Looking shattered, the Abbot sank more profoundly into his armchair. I sat down as well. The sudden shift of perspective brought about by the revelations of the old trafficker in relics had left us speechless.
The corpisantaro had explained things most convincingly: the dervish was not interested in anyone’s death, but in the head of Kara Mustafa. So if there was no shadow of a Turkish plot, who had done away with Dànilo, Hristo and Populescu?
It was a fact that no proof existed against the Turks. There remained Dànilo’s last words just before dying: the young Pontevedrin had clearly stated the name of the elusive Eyyub and of the no less mysterious forty thousand martyrs of Kasim.
But it was possible, I told myself at last, that the poor dying man had been simply delirious, and had been senselessly repeating the results of his research into the Golden Apple. Perhaps Dànilo too had come across the legends whereby the Golden Apple was supposed to have entered the tomb of Eyyub, as we had heard from Zyprian.
Like a ray of sunlight capriciously refracted on the troubled surface of water, everything was multiplying in a thousand directions, its contours and outline becoming blurred. Was the riddle of the Ottoman embassy now somehow mixed up with the mysterious bond between Orsini and Ugonio? And did it have anything to do with the Emperor’s illness? After all, Atto had told me that musicians were all spies; he himself was a living example! And did that also apply to the Chormaisterin?
At that moment there came a knock. It was Penicek. At the porter’s lodge they knew the Bohemian cart driver and let him through without any trouble. He stuttered that he was looking for Simonis: he had come, as promised, to provide more information on human flight and he also had to hand over the notes he had taken on the lessons that he was following on behalf of his Barber. He was accompanied by Opalinski, the Pole.
“Brontology . . . stilbology . . . nubilogy?” I stammered in bewilderment.
“They are philosophical doctrines one can use to investigate the most mysterious phenomena of nature,” said Simonis rather mechanically, as if he were parroting a university lesson.
Nubilogy, in particular, according to Penicek, suited our case. I turned to Atto to ask if he had ever heard of it, but the old Abbot, overcome by weariness, had dozed off.
“And what is it?” I asked Simonis.
“It’s a science that studies, how can I put it, the interventions and influences of air on bodies, so that they perform a certain sort of motion, which . . . I don’t know how to put it . . . You explain, Pennal!” ordered my assistant.
Limping forward, the Bohemian opened a bag full of books and laboriously and fumblingly placed the volumes on the table before him.
“Watch where you put your clumsy feet!” Simonis snapped, the Pennal offering him his only chance to vent the fears of the last few days.
“I’m truly sorry, Signor Barber,” he humbly apologised.
Poor Penicek then confessed: not knowing how to proceed with his research into the subject of flying, he had turned to Jan Janitzki Opalinski, who, as everyone knew, was extremely knowledgeable and had been happy to help him out.
“I don’t know why you are so keen to know if a wooden ship can rise into the air,” Opalinski then began, stepping forward, “but it is a much debated issue.”
There was, continued the Pole, a learned professor of natural science who had answered the question. As was always the case in Vienna when there was a technical problem to face, it was an Italian who came to our aid: his name was Ovidio Montalbani, and he had taught for a long time at the University of Bologna. In academic circles he was very well known for having published books of unprecedented doctrinal profundity in which he investigated the most abstruse and obscure fields of knowledge: calopiedology, charagmaposcopy, diologogy, athenography, philautiology, brontology, cephalogy, stilbology, aphroditology and above all nubilogy.
I gave a glance at the first of the books that the Pennal had piled up on the table.
Some pages were marked by little strips of paper. I opened at one of these markers and read:
This Aristotelian anathimiasis, which is none other than a smoky mist which has risen into the air, according to Pliny, and the watery concave vapour of which Metrodorus held discourse, and the Air swollen with Anaximenes, when it is coined in clouds, then still under a fluxile form it becomes visible within the penetrated body of the air, which for this reason appears under a troubled turgidity that is itself also swollen . . .
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:
The total figure of cloudy bodies of the circular, or more appropriately elliptical, air, which might appear, as can be seen, an aggregate of infinite, partial, highly variable and varied circumscriptions. It must conform itself in accordance with the figure of its local and conservative space, which is circular, or elliptical . . .
“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:
THE FORCES
OF AEOLUS
PHYSICAL-MATHEMATICAL
DIALOGUE
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.
11 of the clock: luncheon hour for artisans, secretaries, language teachers, priests, servants of commerce, footmen and coach drivers.
“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 p
oint 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.
I had no wish to enquire with what promises (or subterfuges) and at what risk Cloridia had obtained it from the first chamberlain or from his wife.
“I must give it back this very evening. Prince Eugene writes in his diary every day after dinner.”
“Speaking of that, wasn’t he supposed to leave for The Hague today?”
“He’s put it off.”
“Why?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Maybe because of the Emperor’s illness,” I suggested.
“Could be. But His Majesty is continuing to get better. Whatever the reason, Eugene takes his diary with him when he’s at war. We’re lucky that he hasn’t left yet.”
She handed the piece of paper to me. In the centre of it, in the uncertain handwriting of a Turk, lay the famous phrase soli soli soli ad pomum venimus aureum. Nothing else.
“May I?” asked Simonis at that moment, drawing near.
He scrutinised the paper carefully, taking it to the window to examine it better in the daylight.
“Signor Master, if you have no other orders for me today, I could perhaps help you to find out whether this piece of paper conceals anything.”
Veritas (Atto Melani) Page 53