Imprimatur (47 page)

"Did you say that the Queen died in July?" I asked, brusquely interrupting him.

"What did you say? Ah yes, on the 30th of July, after an illness."

I asked no more. I had finished cleaning the page, rapidly remov­ing the powder from both sides of the sheet and returning it to its cover. I took my leave and left the chamber almost panting with agi­tation. Closing the door, I leaned on the wall to reflect.

A sovereign, the Queen of France, had died of an illness in the last week of July: exactly in accordance with the prediction of the astrological almanack.

It was as though I had received a warning through the mouth of Devize: a piece of news (of which only I, a poor prentice, had re­mained unaware) had provided yet another confirmation of the in­fallibility of the astrological gazette and the ineluctability of fate's writing in the stars.

Cristofano had assured me that astrology was not necessarily con­trary to the Faith, and was indeed of the greatest utility for medicine. Yet, in that moment there came to me the memory of the unfathom­able reasoning of Stilone Priaso, the strange story of Campanella and the tragic destiny of Father Morandi. I prayed heaven to send me a sign that might free me from fear and show me the way.

It was then that I again heard the notes of the wonderful
rondeau
arising from the deep tones of the theorbo: Devize had begun playing again. I joined my hands in prayer and remained motionless, with my eyes closed, torn between hope and fear, until the music came to an end.

I dragged myself back into my chamber and there collapsed onto the bed, my soul emptied of all willpower and all vigour, tormented by events in which I could discern neither meaning nor order. Giving way to torpor, I hummed the sweet melody which I had just heard, almost as though it could confer on me the favour of a secret key wherewith to decipher the labyrinth of my sufferings.

***

I was awoken by some noise from the Via dell'Orso. I had drowsed for only a few minutes: now my first thought went again to the al­manack, mixed, however, with a bitter-sweet concert of desire and privation, the first cause of which I had no difficulty in discerning. To find peace and relief, I knew that I had only to knock at a door.

For several days now, I had left Cloridia's meals before her door, only knocking to signal their serving. Since then, only Cristofano had had access to her apartment. Now, however, the conversation with Devize had opened up the wound of my distance from her.

What did it matter now that she had offended me with her venial request? With the pestilence circulating among us, she could be dead within a day or two; so I thought to myself with a pang in my heart. Pride, in extreme circumstances, is the worst of counsellors. There would surely be no lack of pretexts for me to visit her again: I had much to tell her and no less to ask.

"But I know nothing about astrology, that I have already told you," said Cloridia defensively when I showed her the almanack and explained to her how precise its predictions had turned out to be. "I know how to read dreams, numbers and the lines of the hand. For the stars, you must go to someone else."

I returned to my bedchamber thoroughly confused. That, how­ever, was not so serious. Only one thing mattered: the blind god with little wings had again pierced my breast with his darts. It did not matter that I might never entertain any hope with Cloridia. It did not matter that she was aware of my passion and might laugh at it. I was still fortunate: I could see her and converse with her as and when I wished to, at least for as long as the quarantine lasted. This was a unique opportunity for a poor prentice like me; priceless moments which I would certainly remember for the remainder of my grey days. Again, I promised myself that I would return to visit her as soon as possible.

In my chamber, I found a little refreshment which Cristofano had left for me. A prey to love's drunkenness, I sipped the glass of wine almost as though it were the purest nectar of Eros, and swallowed a piece of bread and cheese as though it were the finest manna, sprin­kled upon my head by the tender Aphrodite.

Replete, and with the dissipation of the soft aura which the en­counter with Cloridia had left in my soul, I resumed my meditations upon my colloquy with Devize: I had succeeded in obtaining nothing from him about the death of Superintendent Fouquet. Abbot Melani was right: Devize and Dulcibeni would not speak easily about that strange affair. I had however succeeded in not arousing the suspicions of the young musician. On the contrary: with my ingenuous questions, and the damage which I had clumsily done to his score, I had imprint­ed in his mind the indelible image of an uncouth and stupid servant.

I went to visit my master, whose condition I found to be slightly improved. Cristofano was present, having just fed him. Pellegrino began to speak with a certain fluency and seemed sufficiently to un­derstand what was said to him. Of course, he was far from enjoying perfect health, and still slept through most of the day, but, concluded Cristofano, it was not unreasonable to expect that he would soon be able to walk normally.

After spending some time with Pellegrino and the doctor, I returned to my chamber and at last allowed myself to enjoy sleep worthy of the name. I slumbered for hours, and when I descended to the kitchen, it was already dinner time. I hastened to cook for the guests, preparing a few slices of lemon with sugar, to stimulate the appetite. I continued with a Milanese soup, whose recipe called for egg yolk, Muscatel in which some crushed pine kernels had been soaked, sugar, a discreet dose of cinnamon (which, however, I decided this time to omit) and a little butter: all of this pounded in the mortar, sieved and placed in a little boiling water until it thickened. To this I added a garnish of a few bergamots.

After I had completed my round, I returned to the kitchen and prepared half a small jug of hot roasted coffee. Then I climbed to the little tower on tiptoe, so as not to be caught out by Cristofano.

"Thank you!" exclaimed Cloridia radiantly, as soon as I had opened her door.

"I prepared this only for you," I had the courage to tell her, blush­ing violently."I adore coffee!" said she, closing her eyes and sniffing ecstatically at the fumes which spread across the room from the little jug.

"Do they drink much coffee where you come from, in Holland?"

"No, but I do like very much the way in which you have prepared it, diluted and abundant. It reminds me of my mother."

"I am pleased. I had the impression that you had never known her."

"That was practically the case," she replied hurriedly. "I mean: I hardly remember her face, only the aroma of coffee, which, as I was later to learn, she prepared wonderfully well."

"Was she, too, Italian, like your father?"

"No. But did you come here to pester me with questions?"

Cloridia had become gloomy; I had ruined everything. Yet, suddenly, I saw her seek my eyes with hers and bestow on me a beautiful smile.

She invited me kindly to take a seat, pointing to a chair.

From a chest of drawers she took two little goblets and a dry roll with aniseed, and poured me some coffee. Then she sat before me, on the edge of the bed, sipping greedily.

I could think of nothing to say with which to fill the silence. And I was too ashamed to ask more questions. Cloridia, however, seemed pleasantly occupied, dipping a piece of the cake into the hot bever­age and biting it with both grace and voraciousness. I melted with tenderness looking upon her and felt my eyes grow moist as I pic­tured myself plunging my nose in her hair and brushing her forehead with my lips.

Cloridia looked up: "For days now, I have spoken only with you, and yet I know nothing of your life."

"There is so little in it to interest you, Monna Cloridia."

"That is not true: for instance, where do you come from, how old are you, and how did you come to be here?"

I told her succinctly of my past as a foundling, my studies, thanks to the instruction of an old nun, and the benevolence of Signor Pel­legrino towards me.

"So you have received instruction. I imagined that from your questions. You have been most fortunate. I, however, lost my father at the age of twelve and I have had to make do with the little which he had time to teach me," said she, without losing her smile.

"You learned Italian only from your father. Yet you speak it admirably."

"No, I did not learn it only from him. We were living in Rome when I was left alone. Then other Italian merchants brought me to Holland with them again."

"It must have been so sad."

"That is why I am here now. I wept for years, in Amsterdam, re­calling how happy I had been in Rome. Meanwhile, I read and stud­ied alone, in the little time that remained to me between..."

She did not need to finish her sentence. She was surely referring to the sufferings which life inflicts upon orphans, and which had led Cloridia onto the road to an abominable life of prostitution.

"But thus I succeeded in obtaining my freedom," she continued, as though she had guessed my thoughts, "and I could at last follow the life which is hidden in my numbers..."

"Your numbers?"

"But of course, you know nothing of numerology," said she with ostentatious courtesy, making me feel slightly ill at ease. "Well," she continued, "you must know that the numbers of our date of birth, but also those of other important dates in our lives, contain in them­selves our whole existence. The Greek philosopher Pythagoras said that, through numbers, all could be explained."

"And the numbers of your date of birth brought you here to Rome?" I asked, slightly incredulous.

"Not only: I and Rome are one and the same thing. Our destinies depend the one upon the other."

"But, how is that possible?" I asked, fascinated.

"The numbers speak clearly. I was born on the 1st of April, 1664, while the birthday of Rome..."

"What? Can a city, too, celebrate its birthday?"

"But of course. Do you not know the tale of Romulus and Re­mus, the wolf and the flight of birds, and how the city came to be founded?"

"Certainly, I do."

"Well, Rome was founded on a specific day: on the 21st of April in the year 753 before Christ. And the two birth dates, mine and that of the city of Rome, give the same result. Always provided that one writes it correctly, as is done in numerology, that is, counting the months from March, the month of spring and the beginning of new life, onwards; as did the ancient Romans and as still is done in the astrological calendar, which begins, of course, with Aries."

I realised that she was entering slippery terrain, in which the bor­ders with heresy and witchcraft were very narrow.

"April, then, is the second month of the year," continued Clorid­ia, taking up ink and paper, "and the two dates are written thus: 1/2/1664 and 21/2/753. If you add up the two groups of numbers, you obtain, first: 1+2+1+6+6+4 = 20. And then: 2 + 1 + 2 + 7+5+3 = 20. Do you understand? The same number."

I stared at these figures hurriedly scribbled onto the sheet of pa­per and remained silent. The coincidence was indeed surprising.

"Not only that," continued Cloridia, dipping into the inkwell and resuming her calculations. "If I add day, month and year, figure by figure, I obtain 21 + 2 +753 = 776. If I add the figures of that total, 7 + 7 + 6, I again obtain 20. Yet, adding 1 + 2 + 1664, I obtain 1667, the digits of which also add up to 20. And do you know what the fig­ure 20 stands for? It is the Judgement, the major arcana of the tarot, bearing the number 20, and signifying the reparation of wrongs and the wise judgement of posterity"

How sharp-witted was my Cloridia. So much so, that I had un­derstood very little of her divinatory calculations or why she applied herself to them with such fervour. Little by little, however, my scepticism was overcome by her great ingenuity. I was in ecstasy: the grace of Venus competed with the intellect of Minerva.

"So, you are in Rome to obtain reparation for a wrong which you have suffered?"

"Do not interrupt me," she retorted brusquely. "The science of numbers proclaims that the reparation of wrongs will one day lead posterity to correct its own judgement. But do not ask me exactly what that means, because even I do not yet know."

"Was it also written in your numbers that you would one day come to the Locanda del Donzello?" I asked, drawn to the idea that my meeting with Cloridia might have been predestined.

"No, not in the numbers. When I arrived in Rome, I chose this hostelry following the guidance of the
virga ardentis,
the burning, or trembling, or projecting rod (there are many names for it). Do you know what I am speaking of?" said she, standing up and holding out her arm at the height of her belly, as though imitating a long stick.