'Have you ever been there?'
'Alas, no, I have never visited any other city in my whole life.'
'Very well, know then that in no land has heaven been so prodigal of its beneficent influences in every season,' he began grandiloquently, while I prepared his inhalation. 'Naples, gentle and populous capital of the twelve provinces of the kingdom, is situated in a magnificent theatre overlooking the sea, framed by soft hills and rolling plains. Founded by a nymph named Partenope, it enjoys the myriad fruits, the purest fountains, the famed fennel and all manner of herbs offered by the nearby plain known as Poggio Reale, all of which may justifiably raise eyebrows into arches of wonderment. Then, on the fertile littoral of Chiaia, as on the hills of Posilippo, cauliflowers are harvested, and peas, cardoons and artichokes, radishes, roots and the most exquisite salads and fruit. Nor do I believe that there exists a place more fertile and delightful, o'erflowing with every amenity, than the proud shores of Mergellina, ruffled only by soft zephyrs, which deservedly received the ashes of the immortal Marone and of the incomparable Sanazzaro.'
So it was not purely by chance that Stilone Priaso styled himself a poet. He, in the meanwhile, pursued his discourse from under the sheet with which I had covered his head, immersed in balsamic vapours: 'Moving further, we come to the antique city of Pozzuoli, with its copious bounty of asparagus, artichokes, peas and pumpkins out of season; and in the month of March, early sour-grape juice, to the good people's astonishment. Luscious fruit on Procida; on Ischia, medlars both white and red, fine Greco wines and pheasants plentiful. At Capri, the finest of heifers and splendid quails. Pork at Sorrento, game at Vico, the sweetest of onions at Castell'a Mare, grey mullet at Torre del Greco, red mullet at Granatiello, Lachrimae on the Monte di Somma, once known as Vesuvius. And watermelons and saveloys at Orta, Vernotico wine at Nola, torrone at Aversa, melons at Cardito, apricots at Arienzo, Provola cheeses at Acerra, cardoons at Giugliano, lampreys at Capua, olives at Gaeta, legumes at Venafro; and trout, wine, oil and game at Sora…'
At last, I understood.
'Do you perhaps mean to suggest, Sir, that the food which I am serving you does not meet with your approval?'
He stood up and looked at me with a hint of embarrassment.
'Er… to tell the truth, we eat nothing but soups here. But, that is not the point…' said he, stumbling in his search for words. 'Well, in short, your mania for putting cinnamon in all your broths, sauces and soups will end up accomplishing the extermination which we were expecting from the plague!' And unexpectedly, he laughed out loud.
I was confused and humiliated. I begged him to lower his voice lest we be overheard by the other guests; but I was too late. From the chamber next door, Brenozzi had already heard Stilone's protest and was laughing unrestrainedly The echo spread to Padre Robleda's apartment, and in the end both of them leaned out of their windows. Stilone Priaso went on to open his door, caught up in the chorus of hilarity: I begged him to close it, but in vain. I was overwhelmed by a barrage of scornful jokes and mockery, and they laughed until they cried, all at the expense of my cooking. Only, it seemed, the charitable accompaniment of Devize's music rendered it all a little less unbearable. Even Padre Robleda struggled to suppress a guffaw.
None of them had yet confessed the truth to me, explained the Neapolitan, for they had learned from Cristofano of Pellegrino's awakening and were counting upon my master's swift return, besides which, these were the least of their cares during those days. The recent increase in my doses of cinnamon had, however, rendered the situation untenable. Here, Priaso broke off, seeing from my countenance how humiliated and offended I was. The other two closed their doors again. The Neapolitan put a hand on my shoulder.
'Come on, my boy, do not take it to heart: quarantine is not conducive to good manners.'
I begged his pardon for having thus tormented him with my cinnamon, collected my little jars and took my leave. I was furious and unhappy but I decided for the time being not to show it.
I descended to the first floor, intending to knock on Devize's door. When, however, I got there, I hesitated.
From behind the door came the sound of still uncertain notes. He was tuning his instrument. Then he launched into a dance, perhaps a villanelle; and next, what I would today recognise without the slightest difficulty as a gavotte.
I resolved to knock at the next door, that of Pompeo Dulcibeni. Should the gentleman from Fermo be available for a massage, I would at the same time be able to enjoy the echoes of Devize's guitar.
Dulcibeni accepted the offer. He received me as always with an austere and weary manner, his voice mournful yet firm, his eyes glaucous yet perspicacious.
'Come in, dear boy. Put your bag down here.'
He often called me thus, as one speaks to a servant. He was the guest at the Donzello of whom I stood most in awe. His tone, which was tranquil when speaking to inferiors, yet utterly lacking in warmth, seemed always on the point of betraying some impatient or scornful gesture which, however, never materialised; and this caused those approaching him to show exaggerated self-control in his presence and, in the end, to take refuge in silence. That, I thought, was why he remained the most solitary of all the guests. Never once, when I served meals, had he kept me back to converse with him. He did not seem troubled by solitude; quite the contrary. Yet, on his low forehead and ruddy cheeks, I noted a deep and bitter crease, and sensed an underlying torment, such as appears only in one burdened by lonely suffering. The one light note was his weakness for my master's good cooking, which alone drew a rare but genuine smile from him or some witty comment.
Who knows how much he too has suffered from my cinnamon, I thought, at once dismissing the conjecture.
Now, for the first time, I was about to spend an hour, or perhaps more, alone in his company, and I felt greatly troubled at the prospect.
I had opened my bag and taken out the jars which I would be using. Dulcibeni asked me what they contained and how they were to be applied, and feigned polite interest in my explanations. I then asked him to uncover his back and sides and to sit astride a chair.
Having opened up the back of his black costume and removed his comical old-fashioned collar, I noticed that he had a long scar across his neck: so that, I thought, was why Dulcibeni never removed that antiquated item of apparel. He then sat as I had suggested and I began to spread the oils which Cristofano had shown me. The first few minutes passed in light banter. We both enjoyed the echo of Devize's notes: an allemande, then, perhaps, a gigue, a chaconne and a minuet en rondeau. I went over in my mind what Robleda had said about the Jansenist doctrines which Dulcibeni seemed to follow.
Suddenly, he asked me if he could stand up. He seemed to be in pain.
'Do you feel ill? Is the smell of the oil perhaps troubling you?'
'No, no, dear boy. I just want to take a pinch of snuff.'
He turned the key of the big chest and pulled out three rather well-bound little books in vermilion leather with golden arabesques. Then he brought forth the snuff-box, which was well made, in inlaid cherry-wood. He opened it, took a pinch of powder, raised it to his nostrils and inhaled forcefully, two or three times. He remained for an instant as though in a state of suspense, then took a deep breath. He looked at me and his expression became rather more cordial. He seemed pacified. He asked with genuine concern after the health of the other guests at the inn. Then the conversation began to falter. Every now and then, he would sigh, closing his eyes and briefly stroking his white hair, which must once have been fair.
Looking at him, I wondered how much he knew about the story of his late companion. I could not rid my mind of the revelations concerning Mourai-Fouquet which I had just learned from Atto. I was tempted to put some vague question to him about the old Frenchman whom he had accompanied from Naples (perhaps without knowing his identity). And who knows, perhaps the two had met some time previously; perhaps they had even enjoyed a lengthy acquaintance, despite what Dulcibeni had claimed when speaking to the physician and to the Bargello's men. If that were the case, few indeed were my chances of gaining any confirmation from the lips of the Marchigiano. Therefore, after taking counsel with myself, I concluded that my best course would be to converse on some neutral subject so as to start up a conversation and induce him to talk for as long as possible, in the hope of gaining some useful clue from him; exactly as I had already done-although with scant success-with the other guests.
I therefore endeavoured to elicit Dulcibeni's opinion concerning some important occurrence, as one does when one wishes to converse with old men of whom one stands in awe. I asked him, with elaborate deference,
