Secretum

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  I saw him successfully gain height, like some new falcon, dipping and again rising, until he gave way at last to the caprices of the eddying winds and disappeared from view, a drop in the sea of lost desires.

  I returned to the Villa Spada covered in sweat, worn out and embittered. I was to report at once to Abbot Melani with the bad news. He, however, had not yet returned. He must surely be resting, on the way back, from the exertions of the parrot hunt: an ordeal at his age, exacerbated by his painful arm. I decided that, rather than endure a discussion and Atto's complaints, it would be best to slip a note under the door of his apartment reporting on the negative outcome of the hunt. However, even before leaving him that message, I knew as soon as I set foot in the villa that the afternoon would be filled with chores, and yet more occasions for over-exertion.

  The wedding festivities included a ludic entertainment: a great game of blind man's buff in the gardens of the villa. Eminences, princes, gentlemen and noble ladies were to challenge one another in joyous competition: hiding, following, finding and getting lost once more among the hedges and avenues of the park, vying for who was to show the greatest sagacity, speed and skill. The game could be played only in a place where vision, access and even hearing were obstructed, making for ease of concealment and difficulty in discovering those hiding: the magnificent gardens of Villa Spada, now rendered almost labyrinthine by decorations ephemeral and floral.

  I was advised that my services would be required by Don Paschatio on this occasion, in view of a temporary shortage of staff. No fewer than four servants had deserted the Major-Domo, giving such more or less imaginative excuses as a fit of melancholy humour and the sudden death of a dear aunt.

  The day had grown cloudy, the temperature had gone down a little and so the game was to begin not too late. I hastened to find some sustenance in the kitchens; it was by now time for luncheon and the hunt for Caesar Augustus had left me ravenous. I found some leftovers of turkey and toasted eggs, by now grown cold, but a delight both for my taste-buds and for my stomach.

  I was still chewing on some little bones when one of Don Paschatio's assistants instructed me to don livery and report to the junction between the avenue alongside the secret garden and that which led through the vines down to the fountain. At that crossroads, a place of refreshment had been set up, with fresh waters, orange juice, lemonade, selections of fruit and vegetables, freshly cut bread and good preserves, all in the shade of a great pentagonal white and blue-striped pavilion, the pilasters of which were decorated with great wooden shields bearing the family arms of the spouses' families, the Rocci and the Spada. All this had been provided to slake the thirst of the players of blind man's buff, overheated by all that running around, but also for the sake of those taking no part in the game and preferring to stay idly stretched out on the great white canvas armchairs in the shade of the pavilion.

  Making my way to my post, I could but admire once more the infinite caprices granted by the good architect of nature, of which, now that the work of gardening had been completed, I kept discovering new and admirable details. As in every garden all things must be pleasant, in the Villa Spada, every element had been bent to the pleasure of the eye and the intellect, starting with the order of woods and vegetation; for the art of building is a matter of more than the architecture of walls and roofs and comprises hedges, walks and avenues, meadows, porticoes, pergolas, palm trees, flower beds and kitchen gardens. The greatest villas possessed splendid tree-lined avenues, and it is true that we had none such. Therefore, to give a better tone to the walks, along the edges were aligned rows of noble box shrubs, privets and acanthus.

  Barrel-vaulted pergolas gently introduced the shy, admiring visitor to the confluence between one avenue and another, or to crossroads under verdant bosky cupolas. Espaliered laurels were trained as canopies, symmetrically tonsured and seven or even fifteen feet high, vying with sheltering holm-oaks, myrtle bushes shaped like umbrellas or sugar loaves, as well as with complete ephemeral wooden buildings, all covered with a mantle of vegetation, and rows of columns in green with festoons and wreaths providing a frame for the orchestra. From a semicircular platform, a small ensemble of string players filled the air with a melodious counterpoint, a joyous game of hide-and-seek between trills and pizzicati that seemed to anticipate the game to which the guests had been invited.

  Here, a few paces distant from the platform of the little orchestra, I had been detailed to serve, mixing orange juice and lemon, slicing bread, taking care of the armchairs and providing whatever else might please the excellencies and eminences present or passing by.

  As soon as I arrived, I began boldly mixing juices and filling glasses, running from one guest to another like a bee buzzing from flower to flower in the morning.

  Once I had done my duty waiting upon them, I placed myself at the gentlemen's service, standing beside one of the wooden pillars of the pavilion before which the other waiters stood like so many Lot's wives. Under the white and sky-blue wing of the great linen tent the guests stood and chattered, laughing and joking, or sat ensconced in armchairs. A few paces away from me, a few middle-aged monsignors calmed with lemonade tongues over-exercised with gossip.

  It was at that moment that I realised I was in luck. Next to me stood the two monsignors whom I had, during the Academy, overheard discussing a certain plan to reform the corps of sergeants. From what I could gather, the discussion was continuing:

  ".. . And so now, things should get a move on."

  "But this idea is twenty years old, surely they do not intend to implement it now?"

  "On the contrary, that does appear to be the case. I was told by my brother who is still an auditor of the Rota but is close to Cardinal Cenci."

  "And what does Cenci know of it?"

  "He knows, he knows. Here in Rome, at a certain level, the matter is common knowledge. It seems that the time is ripe; if the Pope lives a few more months, the reform will be carried through."

  I listened to those two like Diana drawing her bow against a fleeing stag.

  "But it is absolutely just that this should be done," continued the first speaker. "You and I, who are decent persons, have never seen the proud cohort of catchpolls entering a tavern or wine-shop at night, for at night we sleep and do not go out wine- bibbing in taverns. But everyone knows perfectly well what takes place. First the catchpolls get roaring drunk, befoul everything and create pandemonium, then off they go without so much as a goodnight. And if the innkeeper is so ill-advised as to ask to be paid, they spit in his face as though he had committed lèse-majesté, treat him worse than some back-street assassin and the night afterwards they return to take their revenge. They arrange for some strumpet to enter the hostelry, or a pair of ruffian friends of theirs, and get them to play cards with unstamped playing cards. Then they enter, pretending to be there for a police check, find the cards, or the strumpet, and everyone is thrown into prison: the host, the waiters and anyone who happens to be in the tavern at the time, thus ruining the establishment and the innkeeper's family."

  "I know, I know," replied the other, "these tricks are as old as the world."

  "And do you think that a trivial matter?" insisted the first speaker. "It appears that the catchpolls exact a tithe, 'the gratuity', they call it, not only from all traders and hawkers but even from artists. What is more, they take a cut from all the harlots, and not only that. They rent rooms and sublet them to the same women of the town at a high price, so that they take money off them twice over. If the harlots refuse, they lose all their advantages."

  "Advantages?" repeated the other, somewhat confused.

  "Those protected by the catchpolls can work, if you will pardon the improper term, even on feast days. The others they keep checks on, obliging them to rest during religious festivals, in accordance with the law. So those ones lose earnings. Do I explain myself clearly?"

  "Well, that's a fine one," said the other, wiping his forehead with a white lace handkerchief in a voice that
expressed a mixture of surprise, curiosity and a hint of prurience.

  "Come," said the first one. "Let us go and take a look at the game of blind man's buff."

  They rose from their armchairs and took one another by the arm with familiar courtesy, moving towards the nearby outer wall bordering the Barberini estate; there, they would certainly be turning to the left, towards the little grove where the game would be at its height.

  I looked around me. There could be no question of leaving my post and abruptly or suddenly abandoning the other waiters in the tent. Don Paschatio would certainly receive notice of such a thing; hitherto, I had enjoyed almost complete freedom of movement, except for those occasional duties as a supernumerary, whenever there was a shortage of personnel. If I were to be counted among the deserters, that would only be the start of my troubles. Perhaps the matter might even be brought to the attention of Cardinal Spada in person and I would lose my job; or else the permission to serve Atto might be revoked.

  Just as I was reviewing all these pessimistic prospects, I found the solution. A lady with a decolletage after the French style, with a great white veil on her shoulders, was being served a generous portion of blood orange juice in a crystal bowl. Next to her, the Marchese Delia Penna awaited his turn. Swiftly I took a carafe of lemonade from the table and rushed to serve the Marchese.

  "But what are you doing, boy?"

  In rushing to serve the gentleman, I deliberately jogged my colleague's arm, with the result that he sprinkled red juice on the lady's immaculate veil. Surprised and angered, the lady promptly protested.

  "Oh heavens, what have 1 done! Permit me to remedy this, the veil must be washed at once, I shall see to this in person," said I, snatching the veil from her shoulders and rushing towards the great house; a move executed with such rapidity that the victim and the onlookers were left with no time to react. The school of Atto, master of false accidents, had yielded its first fruit.A few moments later, I placed the veil in the hands of a maidservant, with the request to wash it and return it to me in person. That task was the pretext I needed to abandon my post at the pavilion.

  Immediately after that, I was in the vicinity of the little grove, on the trail of the two monsignors overheard moments before. How, I wondered, was I to spy on them without being discovered? At last I caught sight of them walking between the box and laurel hedges and continuing their earlier conversation. I was jubilant: the good old rules of Master Tranquillo Romauli had offered me the solution. Near the statues, the hedges had been left not more than a yard high. Elsewhere, they were higher. The precise height of those hedges, neither too low nor as high as those in a maze, provided me with a decisive advantage: they concealed even the top of my head, while leaving the others uncovered from the shoulders upwards. I could see without being seen, spy without being spied on.

  I stopped behind a hedge, ready to listen, when a voice made me jump.

  "Cuckoo! You are here, you naughty girl, I know."

  "Hee hee hee hee!" responded a feminine laugh.

  The Penitentiary Major, Cardinal Colloredo, was groping his way, impeded by his voluminous cassock, with his eyes covered with a big red bandage and his hands, adorned with huge topaz and ruby-incrusted rings, stretched out before him in search of his prey. A few paces beyond, hidden behind a little tree, a young high-born maiden wearing a lovely cream-coloured gown and with a heavy diadem of emeralds around her neck awaited Colloredo's approach with trepidation.

  "That is not fair! You are breaking the rules," the young woman chanted, for the ancient wearer of the purple, pretending to wipe the perspiration from his brow, had raised the blindfold a little from his eyes.

  Suddenly, a nobleman wearing a showy French periwig, whom I was able to identify without a shadow of a doubt as the Marchese Andrea Santacroce, burst out from the surrounding bushes. He grasped the maiden firmly, pressing his chest hard against her back, and kissed her passionately on the neck, like a gander covering a goose and biting her sensually from behind.

  "You are mad," I heard her moan, as she freed herself from the embrace. "The others are coming."

  Just then, indeed, another blindfolded player was approaching that part of the wood, driving the other players before him, as happens when the prey is driven forward by the beaters on a hunt. Santacroce disappeared as rapidly as he had materialised. The damsel cast one last languid glance at him.

  I concealed myself even more thoroughly in the grass, terrified of the prospect of being discovered and taken for a spy on clandestine trysts.

  "I know that you're nearby, ha ha!" came the happy chant of the Chairman of the Victualling Board, Monsignor Grimaldi, blindfolded with a big yellow handkerchief.

  Before him moved a little group of guests who were enjoying themselves provoking him, keeping very close but never allowing themselves to get caught. The ladies caressed him with fans, the men tickled his belly with a little finger, then were gone in a trice, some under the sheltering foliage of loquat or marine cherry bushes, some taking refuge under the friendly fronds of a young example of those strange trees, the palms, which were for the first time planted by Pope Pius IV in the garden before the Villa Pia and had since made such an impression that their exotic mops were now to be found throughout the Holy City. Grimaldi bounded forward, sure of surprising the nearest player, the Cardinal Vicar Gaspare Carpegna. Instead, he collided with the trunk of the palm tree, causing great mirth in all the group.

  The Cardinal Vicar, who had escaped the assault by a hair's breadth, leaned contentedly against a wall, when from this came a spray of water which caught him straight in the face, soaking his collar and his purple cape. An even heartier burst of general laughter followed.

  In order to make the games richer in surprises, Cardinal Spada had arranged that little water devices were to be scattered throughout the property, which would be activated by the unwitting passer-by, unleashing sprays, spouts, buckets and downpours for the joy of gay, fun-loving souls. The wall on which Carpegna had leaned, inadvertently pressing on a lever, was in reality a wooden panel leaning against a tree and covered with bricks, behind which was concealed a hydraulic machine equipped with a spout aimed at the activator.

  "Cardinal Carpegna was hoping to get away, and instead... he got a wetting, ha ha!" commented Cardinal Negroni who, however, promptly tripped over a vertical cord which tipped a bucket of water on an overhead branch onto his head, giving him abundant copious cold shower.

  More laughter followed and I took advantage of the diversion to move a little further away. I was on the point of giving up my bold project of espionage and returning to the great house when I recognised the two monsignori whom I sought, as they distractedly observed that jovial pastime. As I expected, they did not notice me, absorbed as they still were in their discussions.

  "The catchpolls protect fugitives and persons who have been served summons," said the first, as they slowly strolled towards the fishpond under the fountain, "yet they imprison people with a mere civil debt for insolvency. And what is one to say of those convicted in absentia who are arrested and arrive in prison half dead? All the doctrinal texts make it quite clear that torture is licit, but at the end of proceedings, not the beginning."

  "And how about illegal arrests? No one says anything about these but they are exceedingly frequent. People are arrested in the middle of the night, interrogated, maltreated and thrown into the cells for no good reason. I tell you roundly that, as long as all this remains unchanged, pilgrims and foreigners are bound to leave Rome scandalised, ascribing the crimes of the sergeants to the persons who worthily preside over public administration."

  "The Pope, the Secretary of State, the Governor..." added the other, stopping by the feet of the Triton to admire the water-lilies, the marsh marigold with its yellow double flowers and the white- petalled trefoil, all limply abandoned on the surface of the waters.

  "Of course, and they will spread the word everywhere in foreign countries, to the great dishonour and discredit
of the Holy Apostolic See."

  Prolonged and forced immobility behind a mere box hedge, although thick and as high as a young boy, was both risky and uncomfortable. The danger of being found out by some player of blind man's buff entering the walk where I was eavesdropping gave me cold sweats. Such was the tension in my legs, what with my concern not to make the slightest sound on the gravel, that my calf muscles were close to cramp.

  Suddenly, my heart stopped: the hedge was no longer there. Or rather, it had shifted. It had gradually moved out of alignment and it was now extending to my left, leaving me without cover. By pure luck, the two monsignors were facing away from me, and so did not see me. I felt as desperate and defenceless as a pig at the gates of a slaughterhouse. Leaping, I took refuge in the shade of a jasmine espalier. I saw the two monsignors break off and look in my direction with an amazed expression on their faces; I prayed to the Lord and lowered my head.