Secretum

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  "An admirer, desirous of expressing to Your Excellency the most profound and sincere of praises," said Atto, handing him a note.

  Lamberg took it. A murmur of surprise and curiosity ran through the crowd of guests. The Ambassador opened the note, read it and closed it. He gave a little laugh.

  "Very well, very well," said he, nonchalantly returning the note to Atto and moving on.

  Abbot Melani promptly returned to his feet with a satisfied smile.

  I returned to my place, standing near the fireplace, in the hope of gleaning other interesting snippets of conversation from the lips of the two prelates I had overheard previously. Now, however, a different pair was seated beside me, in the same armchairs.

  "Now really, to have gone so far as to serve chocolate. . ." one young cleric was hissing through tight lips.

  "But you are unwilling to face up to the facts: this is a pro- Spanish Pope, he is a native of the Kingdom of Naples, which is a Spanish possession, and Spada is his Secretary of State," replied the other, a young man of excellent appearance who seemed to be of noble origin.

  "Agreed, Your Excellency, but to have offered chocolate at a time when there may be a conclave within the year, what a shameless piece of Spanishry. Why, 'tis the favourite beverage of King Charles II of Spain..."

  "It does seem like some partisan signal, I know, I know. You'll see that there will be talk of this in the next few days."

  I did not know that chocolate could be regarded as a political sign of Hispanophilia. I did, however, know that the idea of serving the cacao-based beverage had been Don Paschatio's and that Cardinal Spada had consented to it, going so far as to jest on the matter by declaiming a graceful sonnet. Yet, I thought, laughing to myself, once tidings of such criticism and suspicions reached his ears, it would be easy to foresee the Secretary of State's reaction and his latest reprimand to his unfortunate Major-Domo.

  Suddenly, my attention was caught by a movement on the right- hand side of the room. One of Cardinal Spada's lackeys was moving towards Cardinal Spinola, who was surrounded by a small knot of guests. I realised this only because in making his way through the assembly he had bumped into the back of the Marchesa Bentivoglio, Lady in Waiting to the Queen of Poland, who had spilled a good deal of still hot chocolate on her corsage. The lackey, bitterly rebuked by the Prince of Carbognano, had after a thousand apologies gone on his way and delivered a note to Spinola. The latter read the billet with ostentatious nonchalance, as though to stress its unimportance to those present, and returned it to the messenger. It was too far off for one to be able to hear, in that infernal hubbub, what the Cardinal said to the lackey, moving towards him in the most rapid of movements as he sent him on his way. With a supreme effort of all my senses, overcoming for an instant all that festive noise and my own impotent immobility, I somehow thought that I could read on Spinola's lips, taken together with his gesture of complicity in sending the lackey on his way, a few eloquent syllables: "... outside, on the balcony."

  Seeing and moving were as one single motion. The urgency could not have been clearer: a message, sent in all probability from Spada to Spinola, was now being sent on to a third recipient. On the terrace, I already knew who might be present, as he had been a few moments earlier: Cardinal Albani. Communications were running unseen between the three members of the Sacred College who had met at the Vessel.

  If we could only guess at the content of that message (for there could be no question of intercepting it), we should have made a considerable step towards understanding the manoeuvres taking place with a view to the conclave. We would perhaps be able to understand what point had been reached (and where and how) in the secret negotiations concerning the choice of the new pope, as suspected by Atto, and perhaps also why the three cardinals had chosen to meet at the Vessel, that place of a thousand mysteries. We must not fail.

  I moved away from the wall and, taking care not to attract the attention of the other lackeys, I too made my way towards the balcony. The sun's glare was still blinding. As I drew near to the great window giving onto the terrace, I could descry against the light, like those figures which it seems the Jesuits know so well how to project against the backcloth in their theatrical performances, the dark silhouettes of the guests conversing in the open. Intuition, that indispensable ally in all difficult situations, enabled me at once to identify Cardinal Albani. There he was, to the left, still in the place where he had humiliated Atto, surrounded by that little congregation of friends and boot-lickers which always accompany every cardinal, just as cows are surrounded by flies. The only person to leave the group was a servant of the Spada household who had just finished refilling the cups with piping hot chocolate.

  As I approached the door leading out from the salon, pushing my way between legs, chairs and tables, and praying the Most High that I should not be intercepted by Don Paschatio, I became aware that Melani had not missed what had transpired. Buvat who, giving up his usual attempts to find a glass of wine, was acting as lookout whenever Atto was engaged in conversation, had drawn close to him and whispered something in his ear. Atto had instantly taken his leave of a cordial trio of gentlemen, leaving them there without so much as a by-your-leave. Then, in his haste, he collided heavily with one of the secretaries in Lam- berg's retinue, somehow managing to avoid falling headlong.

  The lackey had too great a start on us for it to be possible to catch up with him. It was thus through the window, I to the left and Atto to the right, that we witnessed the delivery of the note. Unfortunately, the company surrounding the Cardinal hid from our sight the moment when he opened and read the billet. A moment later, we reached the threshold of the balcony, breathless but taking care not to betray any signs of haste. At that very moment, I saw all the guests present on the balcony turn towards me. Every one of them bore on his face an expression of hilarious, amused curiosity. The sun, whose rays struck me frontally, hurt my eyes cruelly, preventing me from seeing the features of those near to me.

  I turned towards Atto. He too looked at me in some surprise, but only for an instant, for at that precise moment Albani was folding the note and was irresistibly distracted from it. The look of wonderment on the faces of the others, still fixed on me, showed absolutely no sign of fading. Someone pointed at me, nudging his neighbour. I was purple with embarrassment. I dared not so much as ask what in my person might arouse such interest in them, but nor did I wish to move, now that I had reached Albani.

  "How graceful," said Cardinal Albani looking towards me. "Cardinal Spada truly has exquisite taste."

  Then he placed the cup of chocolate on the little wall of the balcony, using the hand in which he still held the note. As he did so, some chocolate spilled and wet the piece of paper. The Cardinal at once snatched back his diaphanous hand, unaccustomed to contact with vile kitchen matter, and boiling hot to boot. The note fell from his hand, ending up on the wall, next to the cup. At once I felt a familiar swishing above me, accompanied by a sort of caress on the top of my head. A swift shadow came between me and the sun. With just a couple of sharp movements of its feathers, the being skilfully swerved and landed on the wall, like some animated spinning top, just next to Albani's cup of chocolate. I was unable to restrain myself.

  "Caesar Augustus!" I exclaimed.

  The events of the following instants were among the most convulsive of the day and surely the strangest thing that the Villa Spada had ever seen.

  Until a few moments before, Cardinal Albani and his friends, together with all the guests present on the balcony had been rapt in admiration, not of myself but of the majestic plumage of Caesar Augustus, perched just above my head on a projection from the villa's outer wall.

  As I have had occasion to tell, the parrot was prone to an insane, overpowering passion for chocolate. Every now and then, I would procure him a little, filching it from the kitchen. It was, however, the first time that the whole Villa Spada had been invaded by that inebriating aroma. It was thus no accident that the bird had,
that day, at last overcome its shy and retiring nature and come to join in the festivities, in the hope of finding something good to drink.

  At the very moment when Albani had lost control of his cup, the fowl had seen and, true to his haughty and scornful nature, seized the ideal solution: theft. Even before landing, he had dipped his beak into the Cardinal's cup. Albani and the others smiled, a little embarrassed.

  "How very charming, eh?. . . Really amusing," they just had time to comment before Caesar Augustus, under the somewhat shocked eyes of those who had just arrived on the scene and were gathering around, grasped the paper in one of his talons.

  Albani reached out and tried to regain possession of the note which was less than a foot away from him. Caesar Augustus bit the back of his hand. The Cardinal withdrew it with a cry of disappointment. All the other persons present took an imperceptible step back.

  "Your Eminence, let me help," I ventured, stepping forward in the hope that Caesar Augustus would not use violence against an old friend. I reached out with my hand and delicately took the note from him. Then came the terrible shock.

  Someone had thrown me to the ground, or rather had fallen on top of me. From the protests which I heard I understood confusedly that at least two or three of us had fallen. Someone took the billet from my hand while other hands shoved clumsily against my ribs.

  "Oh Your Eminence, excuse me, excuse me, I tripped," I heard Buvat's unmistakeable voice.

  "Stop this madman!" echoed another voice.

  I understood Atto's plan at once: to create confusion, perhaps even a brawl, by tripping that gangling Buvat so that he fell headlong against the group, while he himself got hold of the paper.

  "Oh damnation, no!" I heard Melani utter immediately after that. I freed myself of someone's leg and rose to my feet.

  Almost everyone had got up, including Buvat, who was putting himself in order under the irate glares of about a dozen people. Caesar Augustus was still there, on the same little wall as before, but with one important difference: the note was in his beak. He had snatched it directly from Atto's hands. Melani now stood before him imploringly, without however daring to ask him to return the paper: Albani was staring with a glazed expression at the bird and his paper.

  "Caesar Augustus. . ." said I softly, hoping to catch his attention.

  He replied with a gurgling sound. He was sucking the note, with its coating of chocolate. Then he spread his wings, looking obliquely at me. At length, with a whirring of white feathers, he rose, flying off at great speed.

  Cardinal Albani flinched involuntarily.

  "Truly a strange bird," said he with an imperceptible break in his voice, struggling to recover his dignity.

  I noticed distractedly that the Cardinal was wiping pearls of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. My whole attention was focused on the direction in which the fowl was flying. There could be no doubt about it. As I had feared, he was leaving the villa in the direction of the San Pancrazio Gate.

  It was not easy for me to find a way of disengaging myself. Muttering an excuse, I left the balcony. Atto joined me almost at once in the salon, in which dozens of heads were still turned towards the curious scene that had just taken place outside. We succeeded in melting sufficiently into the crowd. I had, however, to calculate carefully when to slip out of the salon and then the villa without being seen by Don Paschatio or other members of the staff; all that, while taking the time to exchange the livery for my own clothes. For that purpose, I was able to take refuge in Abbot Melani's apartments.

  "Hurry, hurry, damn it, by now that wretched bird could be anywhere," said he as I hastily pulled on my breeches.

  To pass unobserved there was no other solution but to creep through the cane-brake behind the main avenue of the villa and then to double back through the part of the garden behind the house. Fortunately, the summer sun was already sheathing the fiery daggers with which it was so fond of tormenting both objects and living things; the pursuit was thus less disagreeable.

  After skirting the chapel, we crossed the drive that led to the theatre and came to the rear entrance. We got ourselves a little dirty but at least we had avoided being seen by the other guests or by the guards watching over the main entrance. We must make sure that Albani, Spinola and Spada should know nothing of our search.

  Atto had commanded his secretary to remain at the reception and, most discreetly, to keep an eye on the three eminences, even though he did not expect to obtain much information.

  We both knew that, if we could lay our hands on the note, we would learn the details of their next appointment, and perhaps of their plans. It was true that Caesar Augustus would have chewed up the paper thoroughly where it was steeped in his beloved chocolate. That was precisely why I knew that he would not have got rid of it, but would have held on to it carefully so that he could from time to time return to lick its sweet surface with his pointed black tongue.

  We had just passed the San Pancrazio Gate when Atto grabbed me by the shoulder.

  "Look!"

  It was he. He was circling almost directly above our heads. He had surely heard us. He swerved at once to the right and then flew straight ahead. This was just what I had been expecting. Whenever he set out on his solitary adventures, abandoning the villa for days, sometimes even weeks on end, I would see him fly off towards the tallest, most forbidding trees; and that was what he now did. Leaving Rome, he had not much choice. The most majestic pines, the proudest cypresses, the most hospitable plane trees in the neighbourhood were all gathered in one place, and there we saw him disappear, shooting like a brilliant white and yellow comet, into the green gardens of the Vessel.

  Evening the Fourth

  10th JULY, 1700

  As we slipped into the park of the Vessel, once again undisturbed, our gaze scanned the heights rather than what lay before us. Without a shadow of a doubt, Caesar Augustus was somewhere up there, perched on some high branch, perhaps even keeping an eye on us.

  The late afternoon was at last free of the burning influence of the summer sun but, as had happened on the occasion of our previous visits, no sooner had we entered the Vessel than the evening shadows, which seemed already to be lengthening over Villa Spada, vanished, swept away, together with the few clouds, by a sharp little breeze that left the field open to a pure, shimmering golden light. In short, twilight seemed to be an unwelcome guest at Elpidio Benedetti's villa.

  After crossing the entrance courtyard, we moved towards the espaliered citrus trees, in the neighbourhood of which we began a cautious investigation. The vivid tints of oranges and lemons, the splashes of colour of vases of roses, the leopard-like shadows of the chequerboard pergolas and the little wood confounded not only the sense of sight, but of smell, and indeed all the senses. Light breaths of wind caused every leaf to murmur, every flower to vibrate, every stem to sway. After a few minutes, I seemed to be seeing Caesar Augustus everywhere and nowhere. We walked the length of the drive, which was covered by a barrel-vaulted pergola ending with the fresco of Rome Triumphant. We found nothing. Even Atto seemed discouraged. We changed direction and headed for the house.

  "Damned bird," he murmured.

  "I confess that in my view we are most unlikely to find him. When Caesar Augustus does not want to be found, there is usually nothing that can be done about it."

  "Nothing to be done? That we shall see!" said he, brandishing his silver-pommelled stick at the heavens, as though he were admonishing some deity.

  "I tell you that if he does not want to be found, not even if..."

  "I know what we shall do and what we shall not do, my boy. I am a diplomat in the service of the Most Christian King," said he, silencing me.

  I held back briefly, then decided to answer.

  "Very well, Signor Atto, then explain to me why you tore the note from my hand when I had just got hold of it. If Buvat had not performed that clever trick, if he had not fallen on top of me, perhaps we should now have the note in our hands. Instead
of which, you took it and allowed it to be snatched from you by the parrot!"

  I awaited his response with my chest tight with emotion. As usual, my sallies against Atto caused me a fine bout of anxiety.

  For a second he stayed silent, then he answered me with a cruel hiss.

  "You really haven't got a whisper of a clue, and what's more, you've never had one. You would never have been able to hold onto that note. Albani was right there in front of you. They would all have seen you, you'd have had to return it to him. Only I and Buvat could have made it disappear, if your idiotic parrot had not been there to ruin everything."

  "In the first place, the parrot is not mine but was left to the household by the late lamented Monsignor Virgilio Spada, Cardinal Fabrizio's uncle, may God keep him in glory. And besides, it was thanks to the parrot that I was able to take the note from Albani."

  "I could have distracted Albani. In the meanwhile, Buvat would have taken advantage of the opportunity."

  "Distract Albani? But you've done nothing except to make an enemy of him. For the second time today you have caused a scandal in his presence with your verbal excesses. They'll all be talking about nothing else at the Villa Spada."