Imprimatur

'Now, listen to this: if a father has seven daughters…'

At that precise moment, Atto Melani shocked me by clamping his hand sharply over his mouth. His eyes closed and he stood on tiptoe, his chest suddenly swelling, then doubled up desperately, with his face tucked into his armpit. I was seized by panic: I could not understand whether this was a fit of pain, hilarity or anger.

His anguished and impotent look made me understand that Atto was on the point of sneezing.

I have already drawn attention to how, in those days, Abbot Melani suffered from brief but uncontrollable fits of sneezing. This was, fortunately, one of the rare occasions when he succeeded in containing one of these loud outbursts. For a moment, I feared that he might lose his balance and fall against the half-open door. He leaned against the wall and, miraculously, the danger passed.

Thus, however, although only for a few instants, we were distracted from listening to Tiracorda and Dulcibeni. The first scrap of conversation which I managed to follow, as soon as Atto had recovered his composure, was as incomprehensible as what had gone before.

'Fourteen?' Dulcibeni was asking in a bored voice.

'Eight. And do you know why? One brother is brother to all the girls. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, haaaaa!'

Tiracorda had abandoned himself to unbridled asthmatic laughter, in which he was not joined by his guest. Hardly had the doctor calmed down than Dulcibeni endeavoured to change the subject.

'So, how did you find him today?'

'Ah, he fares not so well. If he does not cease fretting, there will be no improvement, and he knows it. Perhaps we shall have to forget about the leeches and try some other mode of intervention,' said Tiracorda, pulling on his nose and drying his tears of laughter with a handkerchief.

'Really? I thought…'

'I, too, would have continued by the usual means,' replied the physician, pointing towards the secret door behind him, 'but now I myself am no longer quite so sure…'

'Permit me to say, Giovanni,' Dulcibeni interrupted, 'although I do not belong to your art: to each remedy, due time must be allowed.'

'I know, I know, we shall see how we proceed…' the other responded absently. 'Unfortunately, Monsignor Santucci is in a poor state of health and can no longer care for his patient as in the good old days. It was proposed to me that I should replace him, but I am too old. Fortunately, there are several persons who can one day take our place; like young Lanucci, whom I have done all in my power to help.'

'He too is from the iMarches, if I am not mistaken?'

'No, he was born here in Rome. But I have adopted him, so to speak. First, he was a pupil of our colleague from the Marches, then I made him my assistant at the Archispedale of Santo Spirito in Sassia.'

'So, you will change the treatment?'

'We shall see, we shall see. Perhaps a little country air will suffice to obtain an improvement. Talking of which,' said he, reading again from the crumpled paper, 'On a farm…'

'Giovanni, listen to me,' interrupted Dolcibeni with some warmth. 'You know how much I enjoy our meetings, but…'

'Have you dreamed again of your daughter?' asked the other. 'It is not your fault, I have told you that a thousand times.'

'No, no, it is not that. It is…'

'I understand: you are again concerned about the quarantine. I have already told you: it is a trifle, a mere trifle! If matters are as you have described them to me, there is no danger of infection, let alone of being interned in a pest-house. He is absolutely right, that… what is he called? that Cristogeno of yours.'

'Cristofano, he is called Cristofano. But I am concerned about something else. It seems to me that I was followed when I was coming to your house through the galleries.'

'Ah well, one thing is for sure, you have been trampled on by some water rat, ha, ha, haaa! By the way, the other day, I found one right here in the stable. It was as big as this,' said Tiracorda, stretching his short, round arms full length.

Dulcibeni remained silent, and although we could not see his face, I had the impression that he was losing patience.

'I know, I know,' said Tiracorda then. 'You are still ruminating upon that business. I do not understand why you torment yourself thus after so, so many years. Is it perhaps your fault? No; and yet you believe it and you think: 'If only I had served another master! Ah, if I had been a painter, a steward, a poet, a blacksmith or a stable-boy! Anything, but not a merchant.''

'Well, yes. At times, I do think that,' confirmed Dulcibeni.

'And I, do you know what I say to you? If it had been so, you would not even have known your daughter Maria.'

'It is true. Far less would have sufficed: simply that Francesco Feroni should never have crossed my path.'

'There we are again. Are you so sure that it was he?'

'It was he who backed the sordid designs of that swine Huygens.'

'You could at least have revealed the facts and demanded an investigation.'

'An investigation. But I have already explained to you: whoever would have undertaken a search for the bastard daughter of a Turkish slave? No, no, in difficult cases no help can be obtained from the Bargello's men, only from rogues and scoundrels.'

'And the scoundrels told you that there was nothing to be done.'

'Exactly, nothing to be done: Feroni and Huygens had carried her off, up there where that wretch lived. I went to search for her, to no effect. Do you see this old black great coat which I am wearing? I have had it ever since then. I bought it in a shop in the port when I was at the end of my strength and of my hopes; I shall never take it off again, never… I searched again and again, I paid informers and spies halfway across the world. Two of the best told me that of Maria there was no longer any trace: sold or, as I fear, dead.'

The two fell silent for a few moments. Atto and I looked at each other; and in his eyes I read the same surprise and the same questions.

'I have told you many times: in this affair, there is neither resolution nor hope,' Dulcibeni continued softly. 'A drop of the usual?' he then asked, drawing out a flask and placing it on the table.

'What a question!' said Tiracorda, as his face lit up.

He rose to his feet, again opened the secret door and entered the cupboard. Groaning, he stretched up on tiptoe and, reaching out to a shelf near the ceiling, with his stubby fingers grasped two large goblets of fine green glass.

'It is a miracle Paradisa has not yet discovered my new secret hiding place,' he explained, while closing the closet. 'If she found my wine glasses, she would make such a scene. You know, with all her mania about sins of gluttony, and Satan… But let us return to you: what happened to Maria's mother?' asked Tiracorda.

'I have already told you: she was sold a little while before Maria's abduction. And of her, too, no more was ever heard.'

'Could you not oppose her sale?'

'She belonged to the Odescalchi, not to me; as did my daughter, alas.'

'Ah yes, you should have married her.'

'Of course. But, in my position… with a slave…' stammered Dulcibeni.

'Had you done so, you would have obtained paternal rights over your daughter.'

'It is true, but you do understand…'

A sound of breaking glass made us start. Dulcibeni cursed under his breath.

'I am sorry, oh, I am so, so sorry,' said Tiracorda. Let us hope that Paradisa has heard nothing. Oh dear, what a mess…'

Moving one of the wax candles which lit the table, Tiracorda had struck Dulcibeni's flask, causing it to fall to the floor and shatter into a thousand pieces.

'It does not matter. I should have some more at the inn,' said Dulcibeni in conciliatory tones, and he began to gather up the largest fragments of glass from the floor.

'Take care, you will cut yourself. I am going to fetch a cloth,' said Tiracorda. 'Please do not go to so much trouble, as you did when you served the Odescalchi, ha, ha, haaa!'