him with twigs or pebbles to make him talk.
I had tried to induce him to speak in the presence of others, swearing that, only minutes before, when we had been alone, he had done so without the slightest difficulty; whereupon he remained silent, looking vacantly at everyone. He made a fool of me, and after one or two more attempts, no one would believe me; the parrot speaks no more, said they, giving me a pat on the shoulder, and what is more, perhaps he never did speak.
Gradually, with the death of the older servants of the Spada household, all memory of the past deeds of Caesar Augustus came to be forgotten. By now I was perhaps the only one to know of what that big white bird with the yellow crest was capable.
On that very day, for a change, the bird had reminded me of this. The false pistol shots and the sergeant's voice (one of many that Caesar Augustus must have heard in Rome) had taken me by surprise, seeming more real than the real thing. It was impossible to know where he might have heard the original sounds. Caesar Augustus in fact enjoyed a unique privilege: he was not held in reclusion like the other birds and had his own special cage with its perch and feed bowl. Thence he would often take flight for who knows what destinations, sometimes simply exploring the villa, sometimes absenting himself for weeks on end. Wandering around the city, he would add to his repertoire of imitations with ever new examples, to which I was in the end to be the one and only stupefied witness.
'Dona nobis hodie panem cotidianum,' chanted Caesar Augustus, reciting the verse from the Lord's Prayer.
'I have told you a thousand times not to blaspheme,' I warned him, 'otherwise… Ah, I see what it is that you want. You are quite right.'
I had indeed replenished the water and food of all the other birds, leaving the parrot until last. His pride was hurt, and not only that. Caesar Augustus had always been blessed with an excellent appetite and would eat anything: bread, ricotta, soup (especially when prepared with wine), chestnuts, walnuts, apples, pears, cherries and many other things. But his passion, worthy not of a fowl but of a gentleman, was chocolate. From time to time, some guest of the Villa Spada would push some dregs towards him and he would be permitted to dip his beak and his blackish tongue into the costly and exotic beverage. So greedy was he for it that he was capable of cajoling me for days on end (conduct most exceptional, given his bad character) until at length I procured him a spoonful of it.
I had just renewed his water and filled his little bowl with fruit and seeds when I heard hurried footsteps approaching.
'My boy, are you still here?' chided one of the major-domos. 'Someone is looking for you. He is waiting for you at the foot of the back stairs.'
'Come, come, weep not. Well you knew that, sooner or later, we were bound to meet again. Atto Melani is as tough as old leather!' exclaimed Atto taking me by the forearms and shaking me fraternally.
'But I am not weeping, I…'
'Quiet, quiet, say nothing, I have just asked after you and they tell me that you have two lovely little girls. What are their names? Such emotions!' he murmured in my ear, caressing my head and rocking me with embarrassing tenderness.
A pair of young peasant girls observed the scene with astonishment.
'What a surprise, you are a father!' continued the Abbot, quite undaunted. 'Yet, to see you, one would never imagine that. You seem the same as ever…'
Upon that observation (I could not tell whether it was meant as a compliment or an insult) I at last succeeded with great difficulty in breaking free from Atto's grasp and taking a step backwards. I was as shocked as if I had had to defend myself from an assault. I was incredulous: he seemed to have been bitten by a tarantula. I had in truth noticed how, when he saw me arriving, the Abbot's small triangular eyes observed me closely and how, when confronted with the frown which 1 was unable to banish from my forehead, Atto's mood had changed of a sudden and he had turned into this garrulous old man who was now covering me with kisses and embraces.
He pretended not to notice my coldness and took me by the arm, leading me through the gardens of the villa.
'So tell me, my boy, tell me how life has been treating you,' said he in a low voice, and adopting a familiar manner, as with some difficulty we entered the little avenue of locust trees busy with the goings and comings of the hired gardeners making their finishing touches.
'In truth, Signor Atto, you should already be well informed…' I endeavoured to retort, thinking of the theft of my memoir, in which I had also recounted my recent history.
'I know, I know,' he interrupted at once in paternal tones, as he stopped in admiration before the fountain of the Villa Spada which had, on the occasion of the festivities, been transformed by means of scaffolding into a splendid work of ephemeral architecture. In the place of the usual modest basin into which the water poured from a great stone pineapple finial, there now arose a magnificent and serpentine Triton who, clinging by the tail to a pyramid- shaped rock, blew vigorously into ajar, causing a capricious spurt of water to gush up from it in the shape of an umbrel, falling at last to the feet of its creator with a musical gurgle. All around, the Nymphaeum's mirror of water offered the languid spectacle of aquatic plants, ornamented by fine white flowers which floated lazily, half open.
Atto observed the Triton and its fine fountain with admiring interest.
'A splendid fountain,' he commented. 'The Triton is well made, and the imitation rocks too are a fine piece of work. I know that at the Villa d'Este in Tivoli there was once a water organ which was subsequently imitated in the garden of the Quirinale and in the Villa Aldrobrandini at Frascati, but also in France, on the orders of Francis I. It reproduced the sound of trumpets and even birdsong. It sufficed to blow into a few fine metal tubes placed in earthenware vases half full of water, hidden among the water-lilies.'
He looked around the fountain. I did not follow him. He stopped at the far end, spying on me through the spray; then he turned to me.
'To see an old friend whom one had feared dead may cause confusion not only for the heart but for the mind,' he resumed, 'but you will see that, given time, we shall recover our former sentiments.'
'Given time? How long do you then intend to sojourn in Rome?' I asked, obscurely anxious at the idea of becoming involved in some dubious undertaking of his.
He stopped. He looked at me through half-closed eyes which he then directed, first towards the fountain, then the horizon, as though he were skilfully distilling his reply.
It was then that for the first time I had leisure enough to observe him. Thus, I saw the soft, falling flesh of his cheeks, the wrinkled skin of his nose and forehead, the furrows that beset his lips and the corners of his mouth, the bluish veins that crossed his temples, the eyes still lively, but small and deep-set, in which the white had grown yellow, and the neck, more than anything else, marked by the cruel scalpel of time. The thick layer of ceruse on his face, instead of softening the effects of age, came close to transforming Atto into the sad simulacrum of a phantom. Last of all, the hands, only in part hidden by the froth of lace at the cuffs, were now shrivelled, blotchy and hooked.
Seventeen years ago, I had met a man mature yet vigorous. Now I faced one with autumn in his bones.
As though he had not noticed my stare, which implacably investigated his decline, he remained silent for a few instants with his regard lost in the azure, as he leaned with one hand on my shoulder. Suddenly he struck me as being terribly tired.
'How long shall I tarry in Rome?' he repeated the question to himself in absent tones. ''Tis true, my goodness, I must decide how long I shall be staying…'
He seemed as though touched by second childhood.
Meanwhile, we had come to the pergola of the wisterias. The fresh breeze which stirred in the shade revived us. We were already at the height of a hot month of July and the nights barely alleviated the burning heat of the day.
'Thank heavens for a little shade,' sighed Atto, seating himself on a bench and dabbing at the perspiration on his forehead with the little handkerchief of lace-ornamented white silk which he held in his hand. Then he stood up, stretched towards one of the wisterias, plucked a flower and sat down once more, deeply inhaling the fine perfume. Suddenly, he gave me a little slap on the back and burst out laughing: 'Remarkable, you're still asking the same questions as ever! Ah, it is wonderful to find one's friends unchanged, it is truly a great blessing. How long shall I be staying in Rome? But, my boy, the answer is quite obvious! I shall stay here at the Villa Spada for the whole week's
