Caesar Augustus was, however, on quite another level from all his fellow parrots. He mimicked human speech to perfection, even the voices of persons whom he had known for only a very short time and whose accents he had barely heard, reproducing tones, cadences and even slight defects in pronunciation. He reproduced the sounds of nature, including thunder, the rushing of torrents, the rustling of leaves and the howling of the wind, even the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. He was no less skilled an imitator of dogs, cats, cows, donkeys, horses and of course all kinds of birds, and perhaps he could also mimic other sounds which I had not yet heard him produce. He would faithfully imitate the squealing of hinges, approaching footsteps, the firing of pistols and muskets, the ringing of a doorbell, horses' hooves trotting, a door slamming hard, the cries of street vendors, an infant crying, the clash of blades in a duel, all the subtleties of laughter and lamentations, the clatter of dishes and glasses, and many more sounds.
It was as though for Caesar Augustus the whole cosmos was an immense gymnasium in which he could day after day refine his indescribable, unsurpassable talents for mimicry. Gifted with a prodigious memory, he was able to bring forth voices and whispers weeks after hearing them, thus surpassing any human faculty.
No one knew how old he was: some said fifty, others even seventy. In truth, anything was possible, given the well-known longevity of parrots, which not infrequently live for over a century and survive their masters.
His incomparable talent, which could have made of Caesar Augustus the most famous parrot of all time, did, however, have its limits. The parrot of the Villa Spada had, indeed, refused to display his gifts for as long as anyone could remember. In short, he pretended to be dumb. Fruitless were requests, flattery, orders, even the cruel fast to which he was subjected, on the orders of Cardinal Spada himself, to convince him to perform. Nothing worked; Caesar Augustus had for years and years (no one knew how many) withdrawn into the most stubborn silence.
Of course, no one knew why this had happened. Some remembered that Caesar Augustus had first belonged to Father Virgilio Spada, the uncle of Cardinal Spada, who had died some forty years previously. It had been Virgilio, a man of letters immersed in antiquities and the classical world, who had named the parrot after the most celebrated Roman emperor. It must have been a token of love; it was indeed said that Virgilio cared much for his feathered friend and there were those among the servants who murmured that the death of his master had cast Caesar Augustus into the blackest melancholy. Had it been the weight of mourning that stopped the parrot's beak? It was indeed as though he had taken a vow of silence, in the sad and insensate expectation of his late master's return to life.
I, however, knew that this was not the case. Caesar Augustus did speak, verily, and I was witness to that: the sole witness, to be exact. I myself could not tell why this should be; I suspected that he felt a particular liking for me. I was in fact the only one who treated him with courtesy; unlike the servants of the villa, I avoided teasing him with twigs or pebbles to make him talk.
I had tried to induce him to speak in the presence of others, swearing that, only minutes before, when we had been alone, he had done so without the slightest difficulty; whereupon he remained silent, looking vacantly at everyone. He made a fool of me, and after one or two more attempts, no one would believe me; the parrot speaks no more, said they, giving me a pat on the shoulder, and what is more, perhaps he never did speak.
Gradually, with the death of the older servants of the Spada household, all memory of the past deeds of Caesar Augustus came to be forgotten. By now I was perhaps the only one to know of what that big white bird with the yellow crest was capable.
On that very day, for a change, the bird had reminded me of this. The false pistol shots and the sergeant's voice (one of many that Caesar Augustus must have heard in Rome) had taken me by surprise, seeming more real than the real thing. It was impossible to know where he might have heard the original sounds. Caesar Augustus in fact enjoyed a unique privilege: he was not held in reclusion like the other birds and had his own special cage with its perch and feed bowl. Thence he would often take flight for who knows what destinations, sometimes simply exploring the villa, sometimes absenting himself for weeks on end. Wandering around the city, he would add to his repertoire of imitations with ever new examples, to which I was in the end to be the one and only stupefied witness.
"Dona nobis hodie panem cotidianum," chanted Caesar Augustus, reciting the verse from the Lord's Prayer.
"I have told you a thousand times not to blaspheme," I warned him, "otherwise. . . Ah, I see what it is that you want. You are quite right."
I had indeed replenished the water and food of all the other birds, leaving the parrot until last. His pride was hurt, and not only that. Caesar Augustus had always been blessed with an excellent appetite and would eat anything: bread, ricotta, soup (especially when prepared with wine), chestnuts, walnuts, apples, pears, cherries and many other things. But his passion, worthy not of a fowl but of a gentleman, was chocolate. From time to time, some guest of the Villa Spada would push some dregs towards him and he would be permitted to dip his beak and his blackish tongue into the costly and exotic beverage. So greedy was he for it that he was capable of cajoling me for days on end (conduct most exceptional, given his bad character) until at length I procured him a spoonful of it.
I had just renewed his water and filled his little bowl with fruit and seeds when I heard hurried footsteps approaching.
"My boy, are you still here?" chided one of the major-domos. "Someone is looking for you. He is waiting for you at the foot of the back stairs."
"Come, come, weep not. Well you knew that, sooner or later, we were bound to meet again. Atto Melani is as tough as old leather!" exclaimed Atto taking me by the forearms and shaking me fraternally.
"But I am not weeping, I. .."
"Quiet, quiet, say nothing, I have just asked after you and they tell me that you have two lovely little girls. What are their names? Such emotions!" he murmured in my ear, caressing my head and rocking me with embarrassing tenderness.
A pair of young peasant girls observed the scene with astonishment.
"What a surprise, you are a father!" continued the Abbot, quite undaunted. "Yet, to see you, one would never imagine that. You seem the same as ever. . ."
Upon that observation (I could not tell whether it was meant as a compliment or an insult) I at last succeeded with great difficulty in breaking free from Atto's grasp and taking a step backwards. I was as shocked as if I had had to defend myself from an assault. I was incredulous: he seemed to have been bitten by a tarantula. I had in truth noticed how, when he saw me arriving, the Abbot's small triangular eyes observed me closely and how, when confronted with the frown which 1 was unable to banish from my forehead, Atto's mood had changed of a sudden and he had turned into this garrulous old man who was now covering me with kisses and embraces.
He pretended not to notice my coldness and took me by the arm, leading me through the gardens of the villa.
"So tell me, my boy, tell me how life has been treating you," said he in a low voice, and adopting a familiar manner, as with some difficulty we entered the little avenue of locust trees busy with the goings and comings of the hired gardeners making their finishing touches.
"In truth, Signor Atto, you should already be well informed..." I endeavoured to retort, thinking of the theft of my memoir, in which I had also recounted my recent history.
"I know, I know," he interrupted at once in paternal tones, as he stopped in admiration before the fountain of the Villa Spada which had, on the occasion of the festivities, been transformed by means of scaffolding into a splendid work of ephemeral architecture. In the place of the usual modest basin into which the water poured from a great stone pineapple finial, there now arose a magnificent and serpentine Triton who, clinging by the tail to a pyramid- shaped rock, blew vigorously into ajar, causing a capricious spurt of water to gush up from it in the shap
e of an umbrel, falling at last to the feet of its creator with a musical gurgle. All around, the Nymphaeum's mirror of water offered the languid spectacle of aquatic plants, ornamented by fine white flowers which floated lazily, half open.
Atto observed the Triton and its fine fountain with admiring interest.
"A splendid fountain," he commented. "The Triton is well made, and the imitation rocks too are a fine piece of work. I know that at the Villa d'Este in Tivoli there was once a water organ which was subsequently imitated in the garden of the Quirinale and in the Villa Aldrobrandini at Frascati, but also in France, on the orders of Francis I. It reproduced the sound of trumpets and even birdsong. It sufficed to blow into a few fine metal tubes placed in earthenware vases half full of water, hidden among the water-lilies."
He looked around the fountain. I did not follow him. He stopped at the far end, spying on me through the spray; then he turned to me.
"To see an old friend whom one had feared dead may cause confusion not only for the heart but for the mind," he resumed, "but you will see that, given time, we shall recover our former sentiments."
"Given time? How long do you then intend to sojourn in Rome?" I asked, obscurely anxious at the idea of becoming involved in some dubious undertaking of his.
He stopped. He looked at me through half-closed eyes which he then directed, first towards the fountain, then the horizon, as though he were skilfully distilling his reply.
It was then that for the first time I had leisure enough to observe him. Thus, I saw the soft, falling flesh of his cheeks, the wrinkled skin of his nose and forehead, the furrows that beset his lips and the corners of his mouth, the bluish veins that crossed his temples, the eyes still lively, but small and deep-set, in which the white had grown yellow, and the neck, more than anything else, marked by the cruel scalpel of time. The thick layer of ceruse on his face, instead of softening the effects of age, came close to transforming Atto into the sad simulacrum of a phantom. Last of all, the hands, only in part hidden by the froth of lace at the cuffs, were now shrivelled, blotchy and hooked.
Seventeen years ago, I had met a man mature yet vigorous. Now I faced one with autumn in his bones.
As though he had not noticed my stare, which implacably investigated his decline, he remained silent for a few instants with his regard lost in the azure, as he leaned with one hand on my shoulder. Suddenly he struck me as being terribly tired.
"How long shall I tarry in Rome?" he repeated the question to himself in absent tones. "'Tis true, my goodness, I must decide how long I shall be staying. . ."
He seemed as though touched by second childhood.
Meanwhile, we had come to the pergola of the wisterias. The fresh breeze which stirred in the shade revived us. We were already at the height of a hot month of July and the nights barely alleviated the burning heat of the day.
"Thank heavens for a little shade," sighed Atto, seating himself on a bench and dabbing at the perspiration on his forehead with the little handkerchief of lace-ornamented white silk which he held in his hand. Then he stood up, stretched towards one of the wisterias, plucked a flower and sat down once more, deeply inhaling the fine perfume. Suddenly, he gave me a little slap on the back and burst out laughing: "Remarkable, you're still asking the same questions as ever! Ah, it is wonderful to find one's friends unchanged, it is truly a great blessing. How long shall I be staying in Rome? But, my boy, the answer is quite obvious! I shall stay here at the Villa Spada for the whole week's festivities, as you may well imagine. But I shall not leave Rome until the conclave! Now, come with me, and enough of questions," said he, springing to his feet as though he were some bold young spark and taking me joyfully by the arm.
What manner of devil is this Melani, thought I, at once troubled and amused; one moment he seemed to have grown dull and aged, and now here he was slipping away like an eel. With him one could never know where the truth lay.
"Signor Atto," I resumed, raising my voice. "Never would I dare to be lacking in respect for you; but yesterday I suffered one of the worst affronts of my whole life, and so.. ."
"Oh, how very disagreeable for you. And what of it?" quoth he, once again sniffing at the flower while with his other hand he drummed lightly on the pommel of his cane.
"I suffered a theft. Do you understand? I was robbed," I proclaimed emphatically, inflamed by the repressed anger which was once again rising within me.
"Ah, well, you may console yourself," said he complacently. "That has happened to me too. I well remember how at the convent of the Capuchins at Monte Cavallo, it must have been thirty years ago, they robbed me of three gold rings, set with gems, a heart-shaped diamond, a book of lapis lazuli bound in gold and studded with rubies and turquoises, a coat of French camlet, gloves, fans, pastilles and Spanish wax. .."
It was then that I exploded.
"Enough, Signor Atto. Stop feigning innocence: you took my memoir, the account of what took place seventeen years ago, when we first met! Only to you have I confided this, only you knew of its existence, and what was your sole response? To have it stolen off me!"
Atto did not lose his composure. With ostentatious delicacy, he laid the wisteria flower down on a hedge and continued drumming on the silver pommel of his cane, letting me continue with my outburst.
"Not for one minute did you spare a thought for me! I who wept warm tears for you, who wrote to you continually, forever imploring a reply! And your sole concern was that someone might read that memoir and discover that you are an intriguer, that you steal good people's secrets, that you betray your own friends, that you are capable of all manner of infamy and. . . well. . . that you are utterly shameless."
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the palm of my hand, panting with emotion. Atto extended his little lace handkerchief to me, holding it between the tips of two fingers, and in the end I accepted it. I felt empty.
"Have you finished?" he asked at length, distantly.
"I. . . I am incensed by what you have done. I want my memoir back," I stammered, cursing myself for my inability to convey anything better than the same boyish petulance as had been mine seventeen years before, and this at a time when my age is by no means so green.
"Ah, that is out of the question. Your writings are now in a safe place. I have hidden them carefully in Paris, before anyone could give them their imprimatur"
"Then you admit it: you are a thief."
"Thief, thief. . ." he chanted. "You really do have too much of a taste for strong words. With the pen, on the other hand, you have some ability. I took much pleasure in reading your little tale, even if you did at times raise the tone too much and even if you wrote things which could give offence to me. And then, you have been very naive indeed. Really. . . to have written such things about Abbot Melani, and then to have informed him of it. . ."
"True, I realise that too," I admitted.
"As I told you, I did not mind reading your efforts. At times, on the contrary, I found your writing most effective. Yours is a good pen, sometimes a trifle artless, but never tedious. Who knows whether it may not prove useful to you? 'Tis a pity that you failed to mention that you had become a father, I would have been glad to know that. . . But I can understand why: the radiant dawning of the new day, which little ones are for every genitor, surely had no place in that sombre old tale."
I maintained a hostile silence, the better to make him understand that I had no intention of speaking with him of my little ones.
"I imagine that during all these years, you will have read books, gazettes, a few rhymes. . ." said he, changing the subject, as though to move me to speak.
"In truth, Signor Atto," I confirmed, "I am much given to buying books that treat of history, politics, theology and the lives of the saints. Among poets, I enjoy Chiabrera, Achillini and Filicaia. Gazettes... No, those I do not read."
"Perfect. It is you that I need."
"And what for, pray?"
"Showed you this memoir to any persons?"
"There exist no other copies of it?"
"No, I never had the time to transcribe it. Why do you ask?"
"Will a thousand suffice?" he retorted dryly.
"I do not follow your meaning," said I, beginning, however, to understand.
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