Imprimatur

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  Where was Dulcibeni's daughter now? A slave in Holland, since Feroni's right-hand man had been besotted with her; or sold in some other land. I had, however, heard that some of the most beautiful slave girls did, sooner or later, succeed in gaining their freedom: by means of prostitution, obviously, which I knew to be a flourishing trade in those lands reclaimed from the sea.

  What would she have looked like? If she were still alive, she would now be about nineteen years old. From her mother, whose skin was dark, she would certainly have inherited a similar complexion. It was difficult to imagine her face, without having known her mother's. She would surely have been ill-treated, imprisoned, beaten. Her body, I thought, must bear the signs of this.

  "How did you know?" was Cloridia's only question.

  "From your wrists—the scars on your wrists. And also, your talk of Holland, the Italian merchants whom you so abominate, the name of Feroni, the coffee which reminds you of your mother, your way of always asking after Dulcibeni, your age and the colour of your skin, your search with the divining rod, which brought you here. And then there was the Arcana of Justice, do you remember?: the reparation of past wrongs, of which you spoke to me. Lastly, the sneezes of Abbot Melani, who is sensitive to Dutch materials. And you and your father are the only persons to wear those in this hostelry."

  Naturally, Cloridia was not satisfied with these explanations, and, in order to justify my intuition, I had to recount to her a great part of my adventures during the preceding days. Initially, she did not, of course, believe many of my revelations, despite the fact that I had omitted many events which I myself would have found fantastic or improbable.

  Obviously, it was rather difficult to prove to her that her father had plotted an attempt on the life of the Pope, and of this she be­came convinced only a long time afterwards.

  In the end, however, after lengthy and patient explanations, she believed in my good faith and in most of the facts with which I had acquainted her. The narration, interspersed with her many ques­tions, took almost a whole night, during the course of which we natu­rally paused at times to rest and, during those pauses, it was I who requested and she who instructed.

  "And did he never suspect it?" I asked her at the end.

  "Never, I am sure of that."

  "Will you tell him?"

  "At first, I wanted to do so," she replied after a brief silence. "I had sought him so long... But now I have changed my mind. In the first place, he would not believe me; and then, the news would not even make him happy. And then, you know, there is my mother: I cannot forget that."

  "Then we two shall be the only ones to know," I observed.

  "It will be better that way."

  "That no one else should know?"

  "No, better that you too should know," said she, caressing my head.

  At this juncture, one last item of news was impatiently awaited, and not only by myself. The universal jubilation for the victory at Vienna filled the city with joyous festivities. Dulcibeni's efforts to destroy the True Religion in Europe had come too late. But, what of the Pope? Had Tiracorda's leeches already taken effect? Perhaps the author of the victory over the Turks was at that very moment tossing and turning feverishly under his blankets, stricken by the plague. We certainly would not have been able to know this then; certainly not from the prison of our chambers. Soon, however, we were to be overtaken by events which at long last freed us from our imprisonment.

  I have already had cause to mention that, in the days before the beginning of the quarantine, strong reverberations had been heard, coming from the ground under the inn, and immediately afterwards Master Pellegrino had discovered a fissure in the wall of the staircase on the first floor. The phenomenon had, of course, given rise to no lit­tle concern; but that had, however, been overshadowed by the death of Fouquet, the imposition of the quarantine and many successive events. However, Stilone Priaso's astrological almanack had, as I had been able to read with my own eyes, predicted for those days "earth­quakes and subterranean fires". If this had been a mere coincidence, it seemed designed to perturb even the calmest of spirits.

  The memory of those subterranean rumblings still instilled a cer­tain disquiet in my soul, made all the greater by the crack in the staircase which—I could not decide whether this was the work of my imagination—seemed every day to grow longer and deeper.

  It was perhaps because of that state of anxiety that, on the night of the 24th and 25th September, I awoke in the small hours. I opened my eyes, finding my dark, damp chamber even narrower and more suffocating than usual. What had disturbed me? I had no need to relieve my bladder, nor had I been awoken by some loud noise. No: it was a sinister, diffuse creaking, coming from I knew not where. It was like the groan of pebbles grinding against each other, as though they were being slowly crushed by a gigantic millstone.

  Thought and action were one: I flung open my door and rushed into the corridor, then down to the lower floors, yelling at the top of my voice. The inn was about to collapse.

  Cristofano, with praiseworthy presence of mind, at once warned the night watchman, so that he should let us escape to the safety of the street. The evacuation of the Donzello, observed with a mixture of curiosity and unease by some neighbours who had at once rushed to their windows, was neither easy nor devoid of perils. The creak­ing came from the stairs, where the fissure had, in the space of a few hours, grown into a chasm. As usual, it required the courage of a few (Atto Melani, Cristofano and myself) to bear the helpless Dulcibeni to safety. The convalescent Bedfordi managed on his own. Thus, too, my master, although confused, found the usual presence of mind to utter imprecations against his misfortune. Once we were all outside, it seemed almost as though the peril had ceased. It would not, how­ever, have been wise to return, and that was emphasised by the noise of a great fall of rubble within. Cristofano consulted closely with the watchman.

  This led to the decision that we should turn to the nearby mon­astery of Celestine fathers who would surely take pity on our sad condition and be willing to offer us succour and shelter.

  And so they were; awoken in the middle of the night, the fathers welcomed us without great enthusiasm (perhaps also because of the suspicion of pestilence during the preceding days) but with pious generosity, assigning us to little cells, in which each of us could find the most dignified and comfortable refuge.

  The great news of the following day, Saturday 25th September, arrived as soon as we awoke. The city was still immersed in the fes­tive climate of the Viennese victory celebrations, and hardly had I poked my nose out from my little cell than I saw how this carelessly relaxed attitude had affected even the Celestine fathers. None of them was keeping any special watch over us, and the only supervi­sory visit that I received was that of Cristofano, who had slept in the same cell as Dulcibeni, in order to be able to assist him with any nocturnal difficulties. He confirmed with a trace of surprise that we seemed not to be subject to restrictions of any kind and that whoever wished to do so could walk out from any of the monastery's many doors. In the coming days, he thought that some would inevitably make their way out. He did not, however, know that the first such escapade would take place within only a few hours.

  It was an indiscreet conversation between two Celestine fathers outside my door that brought to my attention the event which was to take place that very evening: in the Basilica of Saint John Lateran, the victory at Vienna was to be celebrated with a great Te Deum and this solemn rite of thanksgiving was to be conducted by His Beati­tude Pope Innocent XI in person.

  I spent almost the entire day in my cell, apart from a couple of visits to Dulcibeni and Cristofano, and one to Pellegrino. My poor master was now beset by sufferings of both body and mind: it had been explained to him that the inn was in danger and that in the ear­ly hours of the morning, the stairs had completely collapsed, together with the landings and walls giving onto the inner courtyard. I myself gave a start upon hearing that news: it meant that in all probability th
e secret closet through which one could gain access to the galleries beneath had been lost. I would have liked to share that news with Abbot Melani, but it was too late.

  When the afternoon light was already eroded by the soft embrace of twilight, it was not difficult for me to slip out from my cell and from the monastery, through an unguarded side door. For a modest sum (which I took from the few savings I had salvaged during our flight from the Donzello), I gained the complicity of a young servant of those friars, so as to be certain of finding the same door open on my return.

  I was not fleeing; I had only one aim, and once I had satisfied that I would again retire to the monastery of the Celestines. It took no little time to reach the basilica of Saint John, where a huge crowd of people was gathering. From the monastery, I went first to the Pan­theon, then to the Piazza San Marco and thence to the Colosseum. Within a few minutes, after proceeding down the street that leads straight from the amphitheatre to the basilica, I found myself at last in the Piazza of Saint John Lateran, surrounded by an anxious, febrile multitude which was growing by the minute. I therefore approached the entrance of the basilica, where I saw that I had arrived only just in time: flanked by two wings of the jubilant crowd, His Holiness emerged at just that moment.

  As I tiptoed to see him better, I received a blow on the ear from the elbow of an old man who was trying to barge past me.

  "Hey, take care, boy," he said rudely to me, as though it was he who had been struck.

  Despite the many necks and heads towering above me, by slip­ping with difficulty through the crush, I managed at last to catch sight of His Beatitude, just before he mounted his carriage, retreat­ing from the plaudits and attention of the multitude. I saw him, just when he saluted the faithful and, with a smiling, amiable ges­ture, blessed us once, twice, three times. Taking advantage of my youthful agility, I had managed to come within a few feet of the Holy Father; thus I could scrutinise his countenance from nearby and discern the colour in his cheeks, the light in his eyes and even his complexion.

  I am not a physician, nor am I a seer. It was perhaps only my hunger to know the truth that stimulated my faculties of observation to an almost supernatural degree, beyond the confines of common experience, thus enabling me to see that there was not a trace of sickness in him. He had the face of one who has suffered greatly, that is true; but his suffering was of the soul, long wracked by anxiety for the fate of Vienna. Just next to me, I heard two aged prelates whisper that, upon receiving the joyous news of the victory, Innocent XI had been seen weeping like a child, kneeling on the ground and wetting the tiles of his chamber with his compassionate tears.

  But sick, no, that he was not; this was clear from his luminous expression, his rosy complexion, and lastly from the brief but vigor­ous movement with which he mounted the step to his carriage before disappearing into it. Not far off, I suddenly descried the placid face of Tiracorda. He was surrounded by a group of young men (per­haps his students, I thought). Before the strong hand of a pontifical guard pushed me back, I had time to overhear Tiracorda: "But no, you are too kind. It is through no merit of mine... It was the hand of the Lord: after the happy victory, I no longer needed to do any­thing."

  Now I was certain. Once he had learned of the victory at Vienna, the Pontiff had felt better and leeching had become pointless. The Pope was safe and sound. Dulcibeni had failed.

  I remarked that I was not alone in knowing this. A little way off in the crowd, I recognised, without myself being seen, the agitated and suspicious visage of Abbot Melani.

  I returned to the monastery on my own, lost in the crush of peo­ple swarming homeward in disorder, without catching sight of Abbot Melani or making any attempt to retrace him. All around me, exuber­ant comments abounded: on the ceremony, the health of the Pope, and his glorious work for Christendom. Quite by chance, I found my­self in the midst of a group of Capuchin friars, who wended their way cheerfully, waving torches and thus perpetuating the rejoicings of the Te Deum. From their conversation I gleaned a number of curious details (the truth of which I was to ascertain during the months that followed) of what had taken place during the siege of Vienna. The fathers spoke of reports received from Marco d’Aviano, the Capuchin friar who had so valiantly dedicated himself to the League against the Turks. At the end of the siege—I heard them tell this with their tongues loosened by emotion—the Polish king had disobeyed the or­ders of Emperor Leopold and had made his solemn entry into Vienna, acclaimed as victor by all the Viennese. The Emperor, as he himself had confessed to Marco d’Aviano, envied him not for his triumph, but for the love his subjects bore him; all Vienna had seen Leopold abandon the capital to its fate, escaping like a thief, and now they were enthusiastically cheering a foreign king who had just risked his life, that of his people, and even that of his firstborn son, to save it from the Turks. Obviously, the Habsburg monarch would now exact payment from Sobieski for what he had done. When they did at last meet, the Emperor was peevish and icy. "I am petrified," Sobieski confessed to his people.

  "But then the Lord has so arranged matters that all will be for the best," concluded one of the Capuchins, conciliatingly.

  "Yes, indeed, if God so wills it," echoed one of his brothers. "In the end, all is for the best."

  Those wise words still echoed in my head when, on the next day, I was informed by Cristofano that within a few days we would all be freed from the restrictions of the quarantine. Taking advantage of the festive spirit, the doctor had succeeded in persuading the authorities that there was no longer the slightest danger of any infection. The only person still in need of assistance was Pompeo Dulcibeni, whose condition was explained to the guards by an accidental fall down the stairs of the Donzello. As for Dulcibeni himself, he was, alas, a candi­date for perpetual immobility. Cristofano would be able to help him for a few more days; then he too would be returning to the Grand Duchy of Tuscany. Who would take care, I thought to myself with a bitter smile, of the man who had attempted to assassinate the Pope?

  Events of the Year 1688

  *

  Five years had passed since the terrible adventure at the Donzello. The inn had not re-opened. Pellegrino had been taken away by his wife, to stay with relatives, I presume.

  Cloridia, Pompeo Dulcibeni and I dwelled in a modest farmhouse outside the city walls, beyond the San Pancrazio gate, where I am even now consigning these words to paper. The days and the seasons were, then as now, measured only by the harvesting of our little field and the care of the few farmyard animals purchased with Dulcibeni's savings. I was already familiar with every hardship of the fields; I had learned to grub in the soil with my bare hands, to question the wind and the sky, to barter my own fruit for that of others' toil, to bargain and to detect cheating. I had learned to leaf through the pages of books in the evening with a peasant's swollen, dirty hands.

  Cloridia and I lived as man and wife. No one could ever have blamed us for that: in our remote area, we never so much as saw a priest, even for the Easter blessing.

  Since he had at length become resigned to the loss of his legs, Pompeo had grown even more taciturn and irritable. He no longer resorted to inhaling ground mamacoca leaves, the drug from Peru which he had obtained in Holland. Thanks to this, he had also ceased to be seized by those states of gloomy exaltation which had enabled him to sustain his wild excursions into the galleries under the Donzello.

  He still could not understand why we had taken him in and pro­vided him with shelter and assistance. At first, he suspected that we were motivated by the not inconsiderable savings with which he could endow us. He never learned about Cloridia. Nor did she ever wish to reveal to him that she was his daughter. In her heart, she had never pardoned him for permitting the sale of her mother.

  When enough time had passed to protect her from the anguish of memories, Cloridia at last recounted to me the vicissitudes which she had suffered after being torn from her father. Huygens had per­suaded the child that he had bought her from Dulcibeni. He h
ad kept her hidden and then, when he tired of her, he had sold her to other wealthy Italian merchants before returning to Feroni in Tuscany.

  For long years, she had travelled in the retinue of these merchants, and then of others, and yet others, more than once being bought and resold. From that to the ancient and shameful art, the step had been short; but with the money she had secretly and with great efforts set aside, she had bought back her freedom. Opulent and liberal, Am­sterdam was the ideal city for that vile trafficking in bodies. At last, however, she was overcome by the urge to retrace her father and to ask him to explain why he had abandoned her, and this, aided by the science of numbers and the ardent rod, had brought her to the door of the Donzello.

  Despite all that she had suffered and the sad memories which often robbed her of sleep, Cloridia assisted Dulcibeni with constancy and devotion. He, for his part, ceased to treat her with disdain. He never asked her any questions about her past, thus sparing her the embarrassment of having to lie.

  Pompeo soon asked me to go and recover the trunks full of books which he had left in Naples. He presented them to me, announcing that, with time, I would come more and more to appreciate their value. Thanks to those books, and the discussions which arose from reading them, little by little, Dulcibeni's tongue loosened. In time, he switched from observations to memories, and from these to teach­ings. He taught, however, on the basis not only of doctrine but of experience; one who has traded for years throughout Europe, and in the service of a powerful house like that of the Odescalchi, will have much to tell. There remained between us, however, hanging in the air, that unrevealed mystery: why had Dulcibeni made an attempt on the life of the Pope?