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.
It looked very much like an obscene allusion. I held my tongue and felt discouraged.
'But we shall speak of that another time; if you wish to, of course,' she concluded with a smile which seemed ambiguous to me.
I took my leave of her, promptly completing my round of the apartments to collect the dishes in which I had served dinner. Whatever had Cloridia meant by that strange gesture? Was it perhaps a lascivious invitation or, worse, a mercenary one? I was not that stupid: I knew that, given my humble condition, it was ridiculous to expect that she might ever think of me as anything other than a poor servant; but, had she not understood that I had not a penny to my name? Did she perhaps hope that, for her, I might take some money from my master? I dismissed the thought with horror. Cloridia had referred to a wrong which had been suffered, in connection with her return to Rome. No, she cannot have been alluding to meretricious traffic at so grave a moment. I must have misunderstood.
