Imprimatur

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  Here, he explained to me how a rondeau was made, and how that which I had just heard differed from others.

  "That to which you have just listened is a rondeau in the style we call brise, or broken. In other words, it imitates the lute: the chords are not all played together but strummed, arpeggiato."

  "Ah, I see," I replied, confusedly.

  From my expression, Devize must have understood how unsatisfactory his explanation had been, and he went on to say that, while the refrain was written according to the good old rules of consonance, the alternate passages contained ever new harmonic assays, which all concluded in an unexpected fashion, almost as though they were alien to good musical doctrine. And after reaching its apogee, the rondeau brusquely entered its coda.

  I asked him how it was that he spoke our language so fluently (although with a strong French accent; but that, I did not mention).

  "I have travelled much, and I have come to know many Italians whom, by inclination and in practice, I regard as the best musicians in the world. In Rome, however, the Pope has already had the Teatro Tor di Nona, which was near this hostelry, closed for years; but in Bo­logna, in the cappella of San Petronio, and in Florence, one can hear many fine musicians and many magnificent new works. Indeed, our great maestro Jean-Baptiste Lully, who ornaments the King's glory at Versailles, is a Florentine. Best of all, I know Venice where, of all Italian cities, music flourishes the most. I adore the theatres of Ven­ice: the San Cassiano, the San Salvatore, and the famous Teatro del Cocomero where, before I went to Naples, I attended a marvellous concert."

  "Were you intending to stay long here in Rome?"

  "It scarcely matters now what I may have intended. We do not even know whether we shall leave here alive," said he, resuming his playing with a passage which, he said, came from a chaconne by Maestro Lully himself.

  Hardly had I left the kitchen where, after my conversation with Devize I had closed myself in to prepare luncheon, when I ran into Brenozzi, the Venetian glass-blower. I advised him that, if he wished for a warm meal, it was ready. But he, without uttering a word, grasped my arm and dragged me down the stairs that led to the cellar. When I tried to protest, he closed my mouth with his hand. We stopped half­way down the stairs and he started at once: "Calm down and listen to me. Do not be afraid, you must only tell me certain things."

  He whispered in a strangled voice, without allowing me to open my mouth. He wanted to know the comments of the other guests on the death of Signor di Mourai, and whether it was thought that there was a danger of yet another death by poisoning or some other cause, and if anyone in particular feared such an eventuality, and if others, on the contrary, feared no such thing, and how long the quarantine might last, if it might be more than the twenty days ordered by the Magistrate, and whether I suspected that any of the guests might be in possession of poisons, or even so much as thought that use had really been made of such substances; and lastly, whether any one of those present was proving inexplicably tranquil despite the quaran­tine that had just been imposed on the inn.

  "Signore, I really..."

  "The Turks? Have they spoken of the Turks? And of the pesti­lence in Vienna?"

  "But I know nothing, I..."

  "Now listen once and for all, and answer me," he continued, im­patiently squeezing his rod. "Marguerites: does that mean anything to you?"

  "I beg your pardon, Sir?"

  "Daisies, marguerites."

  "If you wish, Sir, I do have dried ones in the cellar for preparing infusions. Do you feel unwell?"

  He snorted and raised his eyes to heaven.

  "Forget all that I have said to you. My one command is this: if anyone should ask you, you know nothing about me, understood?" and he squeezed both my hands until they hurt.

  I stood there looking at him, speechless.

  "Understood?" he repeated impatiently. "What is wrong, is that not enough for you?"

  I did not comprehend the meaning of his last question and began to fear that he was out of his mind. I broke free of his grip and rushed up the stairs, while my tormentor tried to hold me back. I emerged into semi-darkness, while Devize's guitar began again to play that splendid and disquieting melody which I had already heard. Rather than tarry, however, I rushed up to the first floor. My fists were still tight with the tension provoked by the glass-blower's assault, and that is why it was only then that I became aware of something in my hand. I opened it and saw three little pearls of admirable lustre.

  I put these in my pocket and headed for the chamber in which Signor di Mourai had died. There, I found three of our guests engaged in the saddest of tasks. Cristofano was carrying the corpse of the de­ceased, wrapped in a white cloth which served as a shroud, and beneath which one could sense the deathly rigour of his members. The physician was assisted by Signor Pellegrino and, in the absence of younger volunteers, by Dulcibeni and Atto Melani. The abbot wore no periwig, neither was his face powdered. I was astonished to see him wearing secular apparel—taffeta breeches and a muslin cravat—which seemed excessively elegant for so sombre an occasion. The only remaining sign of his rank was a pair of fiery red stockings.

  The poor body was placed on a large oblong basket, lined with rags and blankets. On top of it was placed the bundle containing his few effects, collected by Dulcibeni.

  "Did he possess nothing else?" asked Abbot Melani, noticing that the gentleman from Fermo had packed only a few of the dead man's clothes.

  Cristofano replied that it was only obligatory to hand over clothing. Other effects could remain in the hands of Dulcibeni, who could deliver them to any surviving relatives. Then the three lowered the corpse with a thick rope through the window down to the street, where the Societas Orationis et Mortis awaited their sad consignment.

  "What will they do with the body, Signor Cristofano?" I asked the physician. "Is it true that they will burn it?"

  "That is not our business. It is not possible to bury him," he added, drawing breath.

  We heard a slight tinkling. Cristofano reached down to the ground. "Did you drop something?... but what have you in your hand?" he asked.

  From my half-open hand one of the pearls, with which I had been nervously playing, had fallen to the floor. The doctor picked it up and studied it.

  "Really splendid. Where did you get it?"

  "Oh, these were deposited by a customer," I lied, showing him the other two.

  My master, in the meantime, left the apartment. He seemed tired. Atto, too, departed in the direction of his own apartment.

  "That is bad. One should never allow oneself to be parted from pearls, least of all in our predicament."

  "Why?"

  "Among their numerous and occult virtues, they preserve one from poison."

  "How is that possible?" I asked, growing pale.

  "Because they are siccae and frigidae to the second degree," replied Cristofano, "and, if well preserved in a vase and not perforated, habent detergentem facultatem, and can exercise a cleansing action in the pres­ence of fevers and putrefaction. They purge and clarify the blood— indeed, they limit menstruation—and, according to Avicenna, they cure the corpum crassatum, palpitations and cardiac syncope."

  While Cristofano was displaying his medical learning, I felt unable to comprehend: what obscure signal did Brenozzi's gift hide? I knew that I must absolutely speak of this with Abbot Melani, and I sought to take my leave of the chirurgeon.

  "Interesting," added Cristofano, examining the pearls and turn­ing them attentively with his fingertips. "The form of these pearls indicates that they were fished before the full moon and in evening waters."

  "And what does that mean?"

  "That they cure the false imaginings of the soul and cogitations. Dissolved in vinegar, they are a sure remedy for omni imbecillitate et animideliquio, above all, for apparent death."

  At last Cristofano returned the pearls to me and I was able to leave him. I ran straight up the stairs to Abbot Melani's apartment.

 
Atto's chamber was on the second floor, just above that which the old Mourai had shared with Dulcibeni. These were the largest and brightest apartments in the entire hostelry: each had three windows, two of which faced onto the Via dell'Orso and one onto the corner of the alleyway. In the days of Signora Luigia, important personages had lodged there with their retinue. There was also an identical room on the third and last floor, under the eaves, where Signora Luigia had lived. Here, despite Cristofano's prohibition, my master and I con­tinued to cohabit, although temporarily: this being a privilege that I would surely lose on the return of Signor Pellegrino's wife, when I would again be relegated to sleeping in the kitchen.

  I was struck by the variety of books and maps of all sorts which the abbot had brought with him. Atto Melani was a lover of the an­tiquities and beauties of Rome, judging, at least, by the titles of some of the volumes which I glimpsed, carefully arranged on a shelf, and with which I was later to acquaint myself in quite another manner:

  The Splendour of ancient and modern Rome, in which are represented all the principal Temples, Theatres, Amphitheatres, Circuses, Naumachiae, Triumphal Arches, Obelisks, Palaces, Baths, Curiae and Basilicas, by Lauri; and Fabricius' Chemnicensis Roma and The Antiquities of Rome in a Compendium of Authors both Ancient and Modern, together with a Treatise concerning the Fires of the Ancients by Andrea Palladio. Nine great maps stood out, with their rods the colour of Indian cane and gold pommels, together with a mass of manuscript letters which Melani was sorting on the table and which he quickly put down. He offered me a seat.

  "I wanted to talk to you. Tell me: have you any acquaintances in this quarter? Friends, confidants?"

  "I think... well, no. Almost no one, Signor Abbot Melani."

  "You may call me Signor Atto. A pity. I would like to have known, at least through the window, what is being said about our plight; and you were my only hope," he said.

  He went to the window and began to sing in an exceedingly suave voice, which he barely restrained:

  Disperate speranze, addio, addio.

  Ahi, mentite speranze, andate a volo...'*

  The abbot's extemporaneous assay of virtuosity left me stupefied and full of admiration. Despite his age, Melani still possessed a rather light soprano voice. I complimented him and asked him if he had composed the splendid cantata of which he had just sung a snatch.

  "No, 'tis by Seigneur Luigi Rossi, my master," he replied distract­edly. "But tell me rather, tell me: how did the morning go? Have you noticed anything bizarre?"

  "A rather strange episode befell me, Signor Atto. I had only just had a conversation with Signor Devize when..."

  "Ah, Devize, it was precisely about him that I wished to talk to you. Was he playing?"

  "Yes, but..."

  "He is good. The King appreciates him greatly. His Majesty adores the guitar almost as much as, once, when young, he adored opera and giving a good account of himself in the court ballets. Fine times... And what did Devize say to you?"

  I understood that, unless I first exhausted the matter of music, he would not allow me to proceed further with my account. I told him of the rondeau which I had heard from the French musician's guitar, and how the latter had spoken to me of the music he had heard in many Italian theatres, above all in Venice, with its celebrated Teatro del Cocomero.[1]

  "The Teatro del Gocomero? Are you sure that you remember that properly?"

  "Well, yes... the Watermelon... It is such a strange name for a theatre. Devize told me he had been there just before he travelled to Naples. Why?"

  "Oh nothing. It is just that your guitarist is telling tall tales, but he has not taken the trouble to prepare them well."

  I was dumbfounded. "How can you tell?"

  "The Cocomero is a magnificent theatre, where many splendid virtuosi do indeed perform. To tell the truth, I have sung there my­self. I remember that, once, the organiser wished me to play the part of Apelles in Alessandro, Vincitore di Se Stesso. I of course refused and they gave me the main role, ha ha! A truly fine theatre, the Cocomero. A pity that it is in Florence and not in Venice."

  "But... Devize said he had been there before going to Naples."

  "Exactly. Not long ago, then, since from Naples he came straight to Rome. But 'tis a lie: a theatre with such a name remains imprinted in the memory, as it did for you. I tell you: Devize has never set foot in the Cocomero. And perhaps not in Venice either."

  I was dismayed by the revelation of that small but alarming un­truth on the part of the French musician.

  "But pray, continue," resumed the abbot. "You said that some­thing strange had happened to you, if I am not mistaken."

  I was at last able to tell Atto about the questions which Brenozzi the Venetian had put to me so insistently, his bizarre request for daisies and the mysterious gift of three pearls, which Cristofano had recognised as being of the type used to cure poisoning and apparent death. For which reason, I feared that these little jewels might have something to do with the death of Signor di Mourai, and perhaps Brenozzi knew something, but had been afraid to speak clearly; I showed the pearls to Melani. The abbot took one look at them and laughed heartily.

  "My boy, I really do not believe that poor Monsieur de Mourai..." he began, shaking his head; but he was interrupted by a piercing scream.

  It seemed to come from the floor above.

  We rushed into the corridor, and then up the stairs. We stopped halfway up the second staircase where, sprawled across the steps, lay the inanimate body of Signor Pellegrino.

  Behind us, the other guests also came running. From my master's head flowed a rivulet of blood which ran down a couple of steps. The scream had without a doubt issued from the mouth of Cloridia, the courtesan, who, trembling, with a handkerchief that covered almost all her face, was staring at the apparently lifeless body. Behind us, who all still stood as though frozen, the chirurgeon Cristofano made his way forward. With a kerchief, he removed the long white hair from my master's face. It was then that he seemed to regain consciousness and, giving a great heave, vomited forth a greenish and exceedingly foul-smelling mass. After that, Signor Pellegrino lay on the ground without giving any sign of life.

  "Let us carry him up to his chamber," exhorted Cristofano, lean­ing over my master.

  No one moved save myself, when I tried with scant success to raise his torso. Pushing me aside, Abbot Melani took my place.

  "Hold his head," he ordered.

  The physician took Pellegrino by the legs, and, making our way through the silent onlookers, we bore him to his chamber and laid him on the bed.

  My master's rigid face was unnaturally pale and covered with a fine veil of perspiration. He seemed as though made of wax. His wide-open eyes stared at the ceiling, and under them were two livid bags of skin. A wound on his forehead had just been cleaned by the chirurgeon, revealing a long, deep gash, on either side of which the bone of the skull was visible, probably injured by a heavy blow. My master, however, was not dead. His breathing was stertorous, but subdued.

  "He fell down the stairs and struck his head. But I fear that he was already unconscious when he fell."

  "What do you mean?" asked Atto.

  Cristofano hesitated before answering: "He suffered an attack of a malady which I have not yet identified with any certainty. It was, however, a fulminating seizure."

  "And what does that mean?" repeated Atto, raising his tone somewhat. "Was he too perhaps poisoned?"

  At those words, I was seized by shivering and remembered the abbot's words the night before: if we did not stop him in time, the assassin would soon find other victims. And perhaps now, far earlier than expected, he had already struck down my master.

  The doctor, however, shook his head at Melani's question and freed Pellegrino's neck from the kerchief which he usually wore knotted over his shirt: two swollen bluish blotches appeared below his left ear.

  "From his general rigidity, this would appear to be the same sick­ness as that of old Mourai. But these," h
e continued, pointing out the two swellings, "these here... And yet he did not seem..."

  We understood that he was thinking of the plague. We all drew back instinctively. Someone invoked heaven.

  "He was perspiring, he probably had a fever. When we lowered Monsieur de Mourai's body to the street, he was far too easily fatigued."

  "If it is the plague, he will not last long."

  "However, the possibility does exist that this may be another similar but less desperate infirmity. For example, the petechiae."

  "The what?" interrupted Father Robleda and Stilone Priaso, the poet.

  "In Spain, Father, 'tis known as tabardillo, while in the Kingdom of Naples, it is called pastici and in Milan, segni," explained Cristofano, turning first to the one, then to the other. "Some call it the spotted fever. It is a distemper caused by blood corrupted by an indisposition of the stomach. Pellegrino has, indeed, vomited. The onset of the plague is violent, while the petechiae begin with very mild symptoms, such as lassitude and giddiness (which I noted in him this morning). It worsens, however, and causes the most diverse symptoms until it covers the whole body with red, purple or black spots, like these two. Which, it is true, are too swollen to be petechiae, but also too small to be tokens, that is, the bubos of the plague."