Secretum

'I have spoken with Sfasciamonti,' he went on. 'He told me everything. You have been magnificent.'

I remained silent for a few seconds. Then I exploded:

'Is that all?' I asked in a loud voice.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said: is that all you have to tell me? After risking my life for your trafficking. 'You've been magnificent!' And there's an end to the story, is that how you see it?' I added, almost screaming.

He jumped up and tried to place a hand over my mouth.

'What the Devil has got into you? You could be overheard…'

'Then kindly stop treating me like an idiot. I am a family man now. I have no intention of risking my life for a handful of coin!'

Atto was circling me anxiously. My voice continued to resound through the chamber and it could be heard outside.

'A handful of coin? What ingratitude! I thought you were satisfied with our arrangement.'

'That arrangement made no provision for my death!' I replied, yet again at the top of my voice.

'Very well, very well, but now do speak quietly, I beg of you,' said he in tones that suggested capitulation. 'To all problems there is a solution.'

He sat down and waved me to a chair in front of his one, almost as though acknowledging my status as that of a belligerent of equal strength, at last invited to the negotiating table.

So it was that, having entered Atto's lodgings with the firm intention of freeing myself from his service, I left after bringing about the opposite. As was his wont when discussing pecuniary matters, especially when it was he who must disburse, he was curt, exact and to the point, with just a trace of restrained bitterness in his voice. The terms of the new agreement were as follows: in carrying out Atto's instructions, or in favouring his interests, or finally in carrying out all the operations necessary for the purpose of completing the memoir for which he had paid me in advance, I was to do everything possible, without however at any time exposing myself to danger, whether mortal or of particular gravity. The term of this undertaking was obviously to coincide with Atto's departure from the Villa Spada or otherwise at some previous time, to be fixed according to his imprescriptible decision..

This ambiguous and complicated form of words meant, when all was said and done, that I was to place myself with even greater alacrity at the service of Abbot Melani, if necessary, even in difficult or dangerous situations: if possible, without paying with my life. The term 'if possible' weighed down on my shoulders like a millstone.

The other part of the deal was no small matter, and Atto was all too well aware of that.

'Not just money, houses. Property. Lands. Farms. I shall make over your daughters' dowry. A rich dowry. And, when I say rich, I am not exaggerating. In a few years they will be of an age to marry. I do not want them to find themselves in difficulties,' said he, affecting a generosity which I had, however, extorted from him. 'I have a number of properties in the Grand Duchy of Tuscany: all valuable estates yielding excellent returns. At the end of the festivities of your master Cardinal Spada we shall go together to a notary and there we shall make over the deeds to a number of properties, or perhaps the income from them — we shall see what is most convenient. You will need to do nothing: your two little girls will become the assignees of the dowry and I hope that this will suffice to find a good husband for them. Even in these matters, you know, what counts most is help from the Lord.'

He made me stand up and embraced me vigorously, as though to seal who knows what fraternal sentiment.

I let him. I was too concerned with weighing up in my mind the implications of that agreement: I could guarantee my daughters, the offspring of a humble labourer and a midwife, a sure and dignified future, even a life of ease. I had accepted in a hurry, out of unpreparedness and, above all, for fear of losing a unique opportunity. A thousand unknowns flocked on the cord joining heart and intellect, croaking their doubts: what if something (illness, death, sudden departure) were to prevent Atto from honouring his undertaking? And, above all, what if he had deceived me? I did not, however, accord much credence to this last possibility. If he had wanted to trick me, he would surely not have paid in advance for the writing of the memoir, as he had, however, done; and in cash.

In any case, I asked him: 'Excuse me, Signor Atto, but… would it not be better to put something in writing?'

He let his wrists fall from the arms of his chair, as though exhausted by a titanic effort.

'Poor boy, you are still so ingenuous. Do you think that if someone intended to cheat you, a contract of this kind would be of any help to you in a court of law or that it might perhaps even help you to obtain your funds?'

'I really…' I hesitated, ignorant as I was about matters of law.

'Come, come, my boy!' Melani rebuked me. 'Learn to live and think as a man of the world! And learn to look better into the eyes of those with whom you are dealing, because 'tis from your intuition about the person that your success or failure will come. Otherwise, every deal will be an enigma to you and every contract a confused mess.'

He fell meaningfully silent, scandalised by my proposal of a written contract yet pitying my scant knowledge of worldly affairs.

'However,' he added, 'I understand you.'

He took pen and paper and put all that he had just promised in writing.

He handed it to me. Melani undertook to constitute on behalf of each of my daughters a marital dowry with rents and property to be drawn up before a notary of the Capitol, but which, he now promised, would be substantial.

'Will that do?' he asked coldly.

'Yes, indeed, I think, yes; Signor Atto, I must thank you…'

'Please, please…' he gestured as though to brush off my words and at once changed the subject. 'What was I saying to you? Ah yes, Sfasciamonti described all yesterday's events to me in detail. Just one question: what exactly did the cerretano say to you on that terrace?'

'Something like 'tiyootootay'… No, now I remember. He said, 'Teeyooteelie',' I replied, with a great effort of memory.

'You have really been splendid.'

'Thank you, Signor Atto. A pity that all that 'splendour' — to use your words — has got us nowhere.'

'What do you mean?'

'We have nothing but the remains of a microscope. No telescope, no relic, no papers.'

'Nothing, you say? Now we know about the German.'

'Well, about him we really do not know a thing, not even whether he really exists,' I objected.

'Oh, you have not laboured in vain. I agree with Sfasciamonti that we are following up an important clue. There is someone here in Rome, this German, who collects optical instruments and relics. Not only that: this character has links with the cerretani. Now we know who to look for. As for the question of the secret language of the cerretani, that really does not trouble me at all. If we cannot manage to decipher it, we shall find ways of making them speak our language! Heh!'

It was unusual to see Atto so blindly trusting. I had the suspicion that all that optimism served mainly to appease me and not to lose my services.

'Sfasciamonti says that no one knows where he is to be found,' I objected.

'These persons of the criminal underworld can always be traced. Perhaps one need only know the right name. The German, however, is but a nickname,' he replied.

That observation brought to mind the strange name which Gloridia had mentioned to me and which, she thought, might also be useful to Atto.

'Signor Atto, have you ever heard tell of the Tetrachion?'

At that moment, there came a knock on the door. It was Sfasciamonti who entered quickly and without even waiting for an answer. His face too bore the marks of that horrible sleepless and over-eventful night.

'I have news. I have been to the Governor's palace,' he began. 'No one knows anything about the telescope. I do, however, have news about the mackeroskopp.'

Sfasciamonti had shown the remains of the optical instrument to a number of colleagues who had quickly retraced it to a burglary committed a few days previously. The apparatus belonged to a learned Dutchman who had been robbed of all the effects he had left in his chamber at an inn near the Piazza di Spagna.

'There too, they opened the door with a key. No breaking and entering. No idea as to who did it.'