Veritas (Atto Melani) (59 page)

Frosch had not yet returned from his patrol outside the Place with No Name. He might have seen the Flying Ship take off; it was probably better to go straight back to town, so
that he could not know for sure that we had been aboard the ship.

“You never know,” I said, urging Simonis and my boy towards the door out of Neugebäu, “no one can guarantee that Frosch wouldn’t tell on us. I’ve already
risked my life twice in this place: with Mustafa and with this Flying Ship. I’d rather not end up in prison.”

In just a few minutes we had collected all our equipment and were on our way back to Porta Coeli. As we left the Place with No Name, still dazed by what had happened and still suffering from
that dizzy feeling that hits you when you come back to land after a long voyage, my son continued to bombard us with questions. It was only by a miracle that I heard the same curious noise, halfway
between a trumpet and a drum, that I had first noticed on the great terrace of Neugebäu. But I was still too befuddled by our recent experiences to pay any heed to it.

When we got back to Porta Coeli it was too late for Simonis to take part in the re-opening ceremony at the university.

“Anyway there will be a second unofficial ceremony this evening, organised by us students,” he told me. “God willing, I won’t miss that one.”

“I could come with you, to look for Populescu and the others.”

“Certainly, Signor Master, if you wish.”

Despite the many events of that day, I had not forgotten that I wanted to put the Greek’s three surviving companions on their guard and to tell them to proceed no further. With Dragomir,
to tell the truth, I had already tried the previous night, but the Romanian had been too drunk to understand a single word, and so now we were looking for him again, in the hope of finding him
sober, or at least of finding Koloman Szupán or Jan Janitzki Opalinski.

On the journey home we had chosen not to talk about our adventure in front of the little apprentice. I asked my assistant to take him to dinner. Meanwhile, with my stomach still taut from my
aerial journey, I rushed to see Cloridia.

I had had no opportunity to spend any time with her since the previous evening, when, in the convent chapel we had learned the sad news of the Emperor’s illness. The events that had
followed had overwhelmed me: my rage with Atto, my visit to Simonis, the wanderings in search of Populescu, the encounter with Ugonio, the happy news of Joseph I’s improvement and finally,
while she was at work, my absurd flight on the winged Portuguese ship at Neugebäu. Now I surely had the right to spend a little time with my wife and to tell her all that had happened! I was
already thinking that I might take her with me to the Place with No Name to show her the Flying Ship and ask for her advice, since she was never astounded by the supernatural. Cloridia might be
able to explain what had happened to me.

Now my little wife was once again all for me, I thought exultantly. Her stint at the palace of the Most Serene Prince must have finished that morning. After a new audience with Eugene, the Agha
and his retinue would have returned to the palace of the widow Leixenring, on the Leopoldine Island. The Prince of Savoy was to set off tomorrow for the war at The Hague, in the Low Countries.

“My love,” I called out as I opened the front door.

There was no reply. I looked for her in the bedroom – no sign. Cloridia was not there. Maybe they had kept her back at the palace of the Most Serene Prince, I said to myself. I was
crossing the cloisters, heading back towards the porter’s lodge to ask the nun there if she had seen her come home, when I heard:

“It was so long since I had felt any discomfort, except for the weakness in my sides and my legs, that it struck me as strange last night to have an attack of colic – and one that
lasted for several hours. I felt some relief after taking a large glass of fresh water with citron, which has been my usual remedy for over thirty years now. There is no worse torture than gravel:
calculi and urine retention. It’s a terrible illness, and if it had happened to me on the journey I would have died in some inn. And what was worse, it was accompanied by painful intestinal
discharges.”

It was Abbot Melani’s voice. He was telling someone about his collapse the previous evening, when I had burst so furiously into his room. He was coming in my direction, perhaps to go for a
short walk in the cloisters with his nephew. I decided not to let him see me: I did not want to risk being dragged into any more of his intrigues. I hid behind a column.

“And so I suppose,” Atto’s voice continued, “that this mishap struck me because two days ago I took two mugs of chocolate that the Signora Connestabilessa sent me some
time ago from Madrid. The Chormaisterin to whom I showed them told me that they were not high-quality chocolate. Alas, I’m blind now and I didn’t notice anything strange in the taste. I
swear that I’ll never go through this again, and as long as I live I’ll never touch chocolate again!”

I grew pale. So Atto was still in touch with the Connestabilessa Colonna! I knew that name well: she was Prince Eugene’s aunt, sister of his mother Olimpia Mancini. The
Connestabilessa’s name was Maria, and eleven years earlier she had been the Abbot’s accomplice in the intrigues in favour of France, which had led to the outbreak of the War of the
Spanish Succession.

I also noticed that Melani, talking with his unknown interlocutor, attributed his malaise of the previous evening not to the news of the illness that threatened the life of his Caesarean
Majesty, but to . . . a cup of bad chocolate. He was certainly not making an excuse: no one could be ashamed of having been taken ill at the grave news that had shaken and distressed the whole
city. And so all the elements in his defence came tumbling down: the accusation of plotting with the Turks to have Joseph poisoned had provoked no reaction in Abbot Melani.

“My head still feels very weak, so I know I must take a rest and I mustn’t tire myself out as I have been doing until today. The March moon has always been fatal to me and I
committed the imprudence of setting forth on a journey in that very month – and what’s more, to come to this freezing place, while in the rest of the civilised world it’s already
spring!”

Atto, worn out by his eighty-five years, was inveighing against the long Viennese winter.

“Well, my dear, I’m so glad that you have accepted my proposal. Deprived as I am of the gift of sight, and with Domenico confined to bed by that awful cold, you are my
salvation.”

“It’s a pleasure, Signor Abbot, and I thank you once again for your generous remuneration.”

I was dumbfounded. It was my wife’s voice.

It did not take me long to understand. Atto’s nephew had fallen ill and the old castrato had suddenly found himself without assistance. He was travelling incognito in a foreign land
– even worse, in the enemy’s land; who could he have turned to if not my trusted consort? By a stroke of luck, furthermore, Cloridia had just finished her term of service at Prince
Eugene’s palace. My wife had obviously been very happy to accept the offer from Abbot Melani, who, as I had just heard, had clearly hired her on generous terms.

So I grumpily bade farewell to the idea of any intimacy with my wife this evening. Curse Melani! We did not need his money: I was already earning enough myself, and I even had enough left over
to send to our daughters in Rome. I had wanted to be able to relax a little with my wife at last, and instead she had been whisked off by the old castrato. My anger at this unwelcome surprise made
me even more distrustful of the sinister Abbot.

Crestfallen, I went off to have dinner at the tavern, where I joined Simonis and my little apprentice. I arranged with the Greek that later he would pick me up to go and see the students’
post-paschal ceremony.

On the way back to the convent, my little boy said he urgently needed to urinate. As usual with children, it is wisest not to keep them waiting in such circumstances, lest they should wet
themselves. So I judged it best to go swiftly into a narrow, dark side street off Porta Coeli Street. While my son relieved himself, I heard:

“So how did it go?” said a voice in Italian, which I immediately recognised.

“As you can imagine, it wasn’t easy, effendi,” answered the other, in a foreign accent. “But in the end we managed it – when they saw your money, they gave
in.”

“How much did it cost?”

“All that you gave me, effendi.”

“What?!”

“They sold their master’s heart. There’s no price for such a thing, effendi.”

These words were spoken by a man dressed in the Armenian fashion, in the classic turban and cloak. His interlocutor was Atto Melani. Cloridia was not there.

The Abbot was standing, leaning on his stick, in the recess of a palace in the dark street. I saw the Armenian hand him a small coffer, which he opened to touch its contents carefully. Atto held
out a little bag.

“Here is your reward. Farewell,” he said, moving furtively in the direction of the convent.

“May God bless you, effendi,” answered the other man, bowing several times in the direction of the Abbot after quickly checking the contents of the bag.

Atto walked slowly in the direction of the convent, staying close to the wall so as not to get lost and feeling the way ahead with his stick, to avoid tripping up. Bold behaviour, I thought, for
Abbot Melani to venture out into the street, blind and alone; the business he had with the Armenian must have been very important!

The master’s heart: one did not have to be a genius to understand what this shady transaction was all about, or
whose
heart it was! One just needed to put two and two together!
Not only had Atto Melani arrived in Vienna at the same time as the mysterious Turkish embassy, just when the Emperor had fallen ill: now I had actually caught him in secret consultations with an
Armenian – which is to say, a subject of the Sublime Porte! What was more likely than that he was one of the Armenians in the Agha’s retinue, maybe a minion of the dervish, Ciezeber,
who wanted the Emperor’s head? This time the Armenian had mentioned the heart: fine metaphors these Easterners had for their misdeeds! Strip away the poetic flourishes and the meaning was
clear: do away with His Caesarean Majesty.

That crazy castrato, I moaned, would drag me with him to the gallows! And we would be joined by that madman Ugonio. I had to run back and tell Cloridia what I had just seen and heard. She must
give up that new job with him at once.

When I got home I saw that my wife had preceded us.

“Wohlan!
Come along now!
” Ollendorf addressed us, when I opened the front door.

It was the evening appointed for our German lesson and Cloridia had started without us.

As soon she saw us she broke into a broad smile. She asked Ollendorf to continue the lesson with just our little boy and led me swiftly to the bedroom.

“You’ll never guess what news,” she exclaimed radiantly as soon as we had closed the door behind us.

She told me all about her new job working alongside Abbot Melani.

“What do you think? This way you and I can spend more time together!” she concluded.

I answered with a forced smile. Suddenly my courage failed me. Poor Cloridia: every time Melani had turned up in my life, I had neglected her to go in pursuit of intrigues and misadventures. Now
that
she
could finally spend the day with Atto, I was supposed to tell her to keep as far away from him as possible. What was worse, the mere thought that to spend time with my wife I
would have to put up with the old spy’s company made me feel sick.

“Darling, I’m afraid it’s not possible,” I began to say, hugging her close.

“What’s not possible?” she said acidly, drawing away.

She did not yet know the gravity of the situation and I had spoiled her mood. I started my explanation from the very beginning. I told her of my suspicions about the Emperor’s illness and
the Abbot. And also of the furious accusations that I had hurled against him the previous evening and his subsequent collapse. I ended with the episode I had witnessed just moments earlier.

“For these reasons, dear, you must leave Abbot Melani alone. Tomorrow you’ll tell him that you can’t work for him,” I concluded. “Anyway, before accepting you might
have consulted me: you knew that his sudden arrival here in Vienna had struck me as suspicious right from the start.”

“Is that all?” she asked in surprise. “What you’ve just told me seems a very good reason to stick close to him and keep an eye on him.”

“But we could get involved . . . And in any case,” I added with a touch of impatience, “haven’t you reproached me all these years for letting Melani drag me into terrible
danger? Now that it’s your turn you don’t seem to be so keen on staying away from him.”

“My love, I told you before we came to Vienna that the Abbot was up to his old tricks again, but you wouldn’t listen to me. And in a certain sense, you weren’t wrong: now
we’re doing fine and I wouldn’t go back to Rome and our hungry life there for anything in the world. As for your Abbot’s shady dealings, accept it, we’re already in it up to
our necks. In fact you should be happy that this time it’s I who will be keeping an eye on him: you never notice anything and you regularly fall into his traps. Trust me.”