*
During an interval between courses, I walked over to Bassetti. He was talking to the Grand Duke’s librarian, Magliabechi, a man famed for his learning, his lack of interest in hygiene, and his love of hard-boiled eggs.
Bassetti turned to include me. ‘I trust you’ve settled in?’ In repeating the words I had used at our first meeting, he was mocking me gently.
I smiled. ‘Everyone’s been very kind.’
Magliabechi gave me a caustic look. ‘Remember what it says in the Politica. “Do they seem friendly and trustworthy? Watch out!”’
I was about to reply when Gian Gastone, who was sitting nearby, snatched his wig off his head and used it as the receptacle for a sudden, forceful jet of vomit.
‘Never a good idea,’ Bassetti murmured, ‘to try and keep up with the English.’
He covered his nose, and the two men moved away.
Towards the end of the banquet, the Grand Duke made a speech in which he described the profound effect my teatrini — my little theatres — had had on him. I was not only a visionary, he told the gathering. I was a moralist. I captured the spirit of the times.
Later still, when even the English were beginning to stagger, their eyes astonished and blank with wine, I excused myself, but instead of following the corridor that led to the front entrance, I set off in the direction of the kitchens, determined to track down the waitress I had seen earlier. Perhaps the English weren’t the only ones to have overdone it, though, for I somehow ended up in a part of the palace I didn’t recognize, and as I came stumbling down a wide flight of stairs, trying to make my way back to the banquet, I heard voices.
I crept towards the balustrade and peered over. Some thirty feet below was a large bare hallway, illuminated by a single iron chandelier. Two men stood facing each other. I was so high above them that I could only see their shoulders and the crowns of their heads, but I knew one of them was Bassetti. Nobody else spoke in such voluptuous tones. The second man was taller than Bassetti, with broad shoulders; his bald patch was ringed with black hair. Judging by the way they addressed each other, I would have said Bassetti was the more powerful, and yet the bald man didn’t sound particularly subservient.
‘— the documents tomorrow,’ he was saying in a voice that was quiet but slightly hoarse, almost as if he had been shouting.
‘Anything else?’ Bassetti said.
‘What about the Sicilian?’
The Sicilian? Had I heard him correctly?
Bassetti turned and walked over to the wall. ‘What about him?’
‘You mentioned him the other day.’
‘Did I? In what connection?’
‘You’re getting forgetful in your old age.’
‘And you, Stufa, are getting insolent.’
The bald man laughed. ‘You want me to look into it?’
‘Not yet. We’ve got plenty of other things to deal with.’ Bassetti said good night, then disappeared into an adjoining room.
Acting on an impulse I didn’t entirely understand, I unpinned my violet and dropped it over the balustrade. As I stepped back into the shadows, heart hammering, I heard the man let out a grunt of surprise. Perhaps the violet had spiralled past his face. I could imagine him staring at the flower, then glancing over his shoulder. I couldn’t imagine his expression, though. I didn’t even know what he looked like. At some point he would probably discover that violets had been worn by people who attended the banquet, but it seemed unlikely he would be able to trace that particular violet back to me. I climbed the stairs again, on tiptoe.
His name was Stufa.
Since flowers didn’t fall all by themselves, from nowhere, he would realize that somebody had been watching him. Would he assume the violet was a love-token — that he had a secret admirer, in other words — or would he see it in a more sinister light? Though I didn’t know the man, and had nothing against him, I found myself hoping that the falling flower had sent a shudder through him. Of uncertainty, at the very least. Or, better still, of fear.
The howling of the wind hid the sound of the Frenchman’s somersaults. The strips of oiled cloth that hung against the window reached into the room; I felt damp air move over my face. Turning on to my side, I pulled the covers up around my ears. They had a name for these bitter, nagging gusts that blew out of the north, but I had forgotten what it was. Once again, I heard the bald man’s grating whisper. What about the Sicilian? That had to be me, didn’t it? Who else could he be talking about? You want me to look into it? Then Bassetti’s voice. Not yet. By which he meant that there would come a time — and, unfortunately, there was plenty to unearth.
I remembered a bright spring morning in 1675. Sunlight angled down into the courtyard in the middle of our house. I was having breakfast with my mother and her sister, Flaminia, when Jacopo appeared unexpectedly. I had thought he was billeted with a battalion of Spanish troops in Messina; in fact, we’d all thought so. Jacopo wasn’t alone. Lurking behind him, close as a shadow, was Padre Paone from Sant’ Andrea, the church opposite our house. Padre Paone had baptized me, and had given me my first communion. I had known him since I was a child.
I got up to offer him a seat.
‘Given the circumstances,’ he said, ‘I think I’d better remain standing.’ He would not meet my gaze.
‘I’m not sure how to begin.’ Jacopo’s tongue shifted inside his mouth, as if he had eaten something that had gone off, then his head lunged in my direction. ‘First your obsession with making parts of people’s bodies, and now these — these practices of yours …’
I had no idea what he was talking about.
‘What did I tell you, Father?’ Jacopo said. ‘Not even a flicker of remorse.’
The priest stepped forwards. He spoke quietly, and his face had curdled, like milk left in the sun. He used the word ‘abomination’.
I glanced at my mother, then my aunt. They seemed entirely passive, in a trance, perhaps because this was a familiar voice, a commanding voice, a voice that delivered homilies and granted absolution.
Jacopo took over. ‘He’s going to be tried, found guilty, and thrown into prison, and the good name of this family — this noble family — will be dragged through the dirt. Never again will we be able to hold up our heads in this town —’
‘But what is it?’ Aunt Flaminia broke in at last. ‘What has he done?’
Jacopo turned to the women with an expression of mingled horror and supplication, as though he had been entrusted with the most terrible knowledge, and was only keeping it to himself in order to protect them.
‘Father?’ he said in a cracked voice.
At times, truly, I thought Jacopo had missed his vocation. Forget the military: he should have pursued a career on the stage.
Once again, the priest began to murmur. This time, he was more specific. This time he mentioned carnal knowledge of the dead.
‘Jacopo,’ my mother said, ‘there must be some mistake —’
Jacopo leaned over her. ‘We have witnesses.’ He turned to me, the muscles knotting and flexing in his jaw. ‘You know, I could kill you for this. I could kill you right now —’ As he went to draw his sword, Padre Paone placed a hand on his upper arm.
I still hadn’t said a word in my defence. Maybe I sensed that things had already progressed beyond that point. Also, I was mesmerized by Jacopo’s performance. He had spoken with such conviction that I had even begun to doubt myself. Had I done something terrible? I touched my forehead; my fingers came away wet. And anyway, my innocence couldn’t be verified. How do you prove that something didn’t happen? It had been so clever of Jacopo to bring Padre Paone along. A stroke of genius, really. After years of studying with the Jesuits, I was hardly about to accuse the church of lying. All I could do was hold my tongue.