pompous and dignified ceremoniousness, lovingly directed; and since in Don Paschatio's eyes the first attribute to be respected was the title, he had liberally endowed each of his subordinates with a title in keeping with the magnificence of the Spada household, which we all humbly and faithfully served. So it was that I, who more and more frequently supplied the aviary with feed and water, had become the Master of the Fowls. A peasant from the neighbourhood who, from time to time performed the duties of hoeing, weeding and manuring the flower beds was no longer to be called Giuseppe (his real name) in Don Paschatio's presence, but Master of the Hoe. The husbandman of the vineyard, Lorenzo, who provided the Villa Spada with golden clusters of grapes and white wine, was graced with the title of Master Viticulturist. With the passing of time, similar names had been granted by Don Paschatio to all the servants of the villa, down to the last and humblest day-labourers like myself. When Don Paschatio was doing his rounds, 'twas midst a veritable flowering of sonorous titles, like 'Master of the Horse, good day to you, Sir!', 'Master Deputy Bursar, good evening!', 'Master Assistant Steward, good day to you, show me the luncheon table!', while those whom he addressed were merely a groom, a clerk assisting with kitchen supplies and one of the cook's assistants. And this he did, not out of love for rhetoric, but from the highest regard for the service of his lord. One could have asked Don Paschatio quite unceremoniously whether one could cut off a finger, yet he'd reflect before refusing. No one, however, could ever have asked him to deprive himself of the pleasure and the honour of devotedly and faithfully serving the distinguished and noble Spada family.
It so happened that Don Paschatio had overheard me that evening taking my leave of the Steward with the words 'Farewell till tomorrow, chief!', which he found undignified and over-familiar: 'You see, Signor Master of the Fowls,' quoth he, upbraiding me with courteous gravity, as though to put me on guard against some danger, 'the Steward commands the cook, the carver, the scullions and the kitchen barons as well, of course, as the bursars.'
'Don Paschatio, I know, I…'
'Let me tell you, let me tell you, Signor Master of the Fowls. The good Steward must prepare the list of purchases for the bursar, and make sure that what is bought corresponds thereto, and that from the pantry it passes directly into the hands of the cook. The disposition of the provisions, which must…'
'Believe me, truly, I meant only to…' I interrupted in vain.
'… of the provisions, as I was saying, which must appear magnificent, both on the ordinary table and on the banqueting table, all of which depends upon the worthiness and good judgement of the Steward who, being excellent at his profession, makes little appear much and with sparse purchases can produce as fine a display of victuals as another less expert might manage, spending twice as much. For a steward who cannot perfectly order and administer will be cheated, which will be prejudicial to his own honour and to that of his master. Do you follow me, Signor Master of the Fowls?'
'Yes, Don Paschatio,' I nodded resignedly.
'The Steward must so arrange matters that the viands are well kept, in order of time, so that they are served up at table in small quantities and promptly, so that they do not grow cold, and meet the master's desires; he must ensure that no strangers enter the pantry or the secret kitchen, where he commands, and sometimes not even members of the household. He must take great care in controlling that the comestibles which reach his lord's mouth are of the best quality and pass through as few hands as possible, so as to avoid any possibility of the dishes being spoiled or indeed even poisoned. The Steward, in sum, hold's his master's life in his hands.'
'I understand your meaning, but I only permitted myself to salute..'
'Signor Master of the Fowls, having due regard to what I have just brought to your attention, I beg you to make your salutations in the manner prescribed by the rules of the Spada household and to address the Signor Steward with all due deference,' said he in heartfelt tones, as though I had gravely offended the interested party who, at that moment, had very different matters on his mind.
'Very well, that I promise you, Signor Major-Domo,' I replied, carried away by the abuse of appellations, even forgetting that I myself was wont always to address Don Paschatio by his name.
Don Paschatio's natural tendency was obviously accentuated in those days by the great preparations for the nuptials.
'Signor Master of the Fowls,' said he at length, 'a foreign gentleman, or so I am informed, one whom we have the honour of numbering among the guests of His Eminence Cardinal Spada, has of late requested your services. I know that he is a person of note and do not intend to interfere in the matter; nevertheless, I trust that you will be so good as to fulfil your duties, where these do not conflict with the requirements of the gentleman in question, with unaltered alacrity.'
'Pardon me, but how did you know?' I asked in surprise.
'I have been notified, simply and… well, yes, I hope that I meet with your complaisant and responsible understanding,' replied Don Paschatio.
It was clear that Atto, in order to be able to enjoy my services undisturbed during those days at the Villa Spada must have paid some sizeable gratuity, perhaps to the Major-Domo himself, thus acquiring for himself the reputation of a gentleman who can, if he so desires, be quite generous. I therefore informed Don Paschatio that I was at that moment at his service, if he so desired.
'But of course, Master of the Fowls,' he replied with ill-concealed satisfaction, 'there are indeed a number of tasks which you could fulfil, seeing that certain persons have, how shall I put it, betrayed their trust.'
He explained to me that a number of servants had that afternoon inexplicably absented themselves, failing to nail the steps of the theatre's stairways, so that the work could not be completed on time, as Cardinal Spada had peremptorily ordered a few weeks previously. I knew the reason (perfectly trivial, in truth) for that desertion: they had met a group of country girls and had carried them off to gallivant amongst the vines outside the San Pancrazio Gate behind the Corsini's House of the Four Winds; a circumstance which I kept to myself, not so much in order to avoid being a tell-tale as not to aggravate the mood of Don Paschatio. The Master of the Household was already furious; yet again, he had been abandoned by his subordinates and the dressing-down which he had received from Cardinal Spada had left its mark on him.
'I have proposed to Cardinal Spada a list of subjects to be punished,' said he, lying, not knowing that I had overheard his conversation with our master. 'We are, however, in difficulties and we urgently need more hands. It would be most helpful if you, Master of the Fowls, could, drawing upon your versatility in serving this august Spada household, put on appropriate apparel — livery, to be exact — and take part in serving viands and beverages at table, as the guests of His Excellency may require. They are all now on the meadow near the fountain, and are just beginning to dine. I shall be near at hand. Go, then, I beg you.'
I gave a start when the time came to don the livery: I was handed a white turban, a scimitar, a pair of oriental slippers, baggy pantaloons, a tunic and a great arabesque cummerbund to wear around my chest. The costume was, of course, three sizes too large for me.
Ah, but I had forgotten: it had been decided that the mise en scene for these dinners was to be in exotically oriental style, as, accordingly must be the liveries. The long gay plume that stood on my headdress showed beyond a doubt that this was the costume of a janissary, a member of the most powerful and terrible guards of the Grand Turk. And this was as nothing when compared to what I was to see later.
After donning this Turkish uniform, I was handed two great silver chargers for serving the first cold course: fresh figs, served on leaves and adorned with their flowers, all set in snow; and, on another dish, tunny-fish served in well garnished roundels. Others bore pies of fish roe, Genoa cakes, pistachios on sticks with slices of citron, fat capons served up in roundels, sole in tricolour garnish, royal salads and iced white cakes.
Passing under the great pergola, I took the drive which led from the great house to the fountain, and thence to the place where the tables were set. As I made my way there, I was enthralled by the perfume drifting over from the flower beds lining the parallel entrance driveway, the smell of the Indian narcissi, the belladonna lilies, the autumn crocuses which had just opened, and by the fresh exhalations from the soft, damp earth of the vineyard. The heat of the day was at last giving way to the gentle embrace of evening's shadows.
Upon reaching my destination, I was astounded by the quality and the generous opulence of the decor. Under the dome of the starlit night, on the soft grassy carpet, the illusion had been created of a veritable oriental palace with Turkish pavilions, made in truth of delicate and brilliantly coloured Armenian gauze, mounted upon light wooden frames and crowned, at the top of each pavilion, by a golden half-moon. All around, the nocturnal braziers had been lit, from which rose, in great spirals, perfumes to mellow one's thoughts and please the senses. A little way off, but concealed by an artificial hedge, stood the far more modest table for the secretaries (among whom Buvat was intently helping himself to glass upon glass of wine) attendants and other members of the retinue of the
