The Pop’s Rhinoceros (32 page)

“That is only the supplication, Venturo. Much can change before the bull itself is issued.”

“Much or nothing. Dr. Faria prefers nothing infinitely, you prefer much. Who will have his way? To whom does His Holiness lean, eh? Interesting developments, as I say. All very interesting. Faria’s sister waits upon the Queen. She reports Dom Manolo to be delighted with this novel manner of diplomacy. Did you see the Medici’s expression when the beast squirted the cardinals? He loves the animal more than his own blood; I heard he refused his cousin the loan of it, frightened that the walk to Florence would pain its feet. His own cousin. Did you hear that?”

Venturo’s movements confine themselves now to rocking back and forth and hand wringing. His restlessness transfers itself to his speech, which stops and starts, leaping from subject to subject: the Pope’s delight, his sister’s gallstone, a rumor that Leno and Arminelli have fallen out, a little later that they are reconciled, that the revenues of Parma and Piacenza are to be reassigned to the Duchy of Modena, and agents of Bentivoglio of Bologna have entered into talks with Venice.

Don Jerònimo sits with his chin propped on his hands, puzzled somewhat at his own patience with this rambling knave when only an hour before he had erupted with rage at his master.

“Come to your point,” Antonio snaps after some minutes. “You try my master’s goodwill.”

“Goodwill, eh? Well, there we are at the nub of it. There have been developments, as I say. Very interesting. Now how much am I to say, I wonder? Such hungry Spanish gentlemen as yourselves, how much will fill your stomachs today?”

It seems that Venturo is smirking, toying with their curiosity, which is too much for Antonio. Venturo cowers but makes no attempt to defend himself as Antonio strides over, draws back his arm, and cuffs him once, twice, about the head.

“Now speak, you bastard!” he barks at the man.

Antonio makes as if to strike him a third time, but a near imperceptible shake of the head from Don Jerònimo stays his hand. Venturo’s fidgeting returns, worse than before. He begins speaking more urgently. Antonio hovers behind him.

“A communiqué has arrived. Albuquerque has sent word from the Indies to
Dr. Faria here in Rome. They have a compact, those two. Dom Manolo is said to favor it: a little plot to sweeten His Holiness.”

“And to aid the passage of the bull,” adds Antonio from behind.

“I tell you what I hear. The Ambassador is very cheerful of late. Very flowery in his manners, very sweet. Yes, well, the communiqué speaks of a shipment to be sent from Goa. A second beast; a companion for the beloved Hanno.”

“Another elephant?” Antonio queries.

Venturo twists about to answer him. “I believe it is a different kind of animal. Dr. Faria said that he had never heard of its like.”

“And the name of this unheard-of beast?” Don Jerònimo, mildly.

“Now that is where the store of my ignorance begins, Ambassador Vich. The name itself was not mentioned, or if it was, I was not present to hear it.” Venturo laughs nervously. “I will keep my ears pricked, be assured of that.”

Don Jerònimo smiles at Antonio, who smiles back.

“Ears pricked, eh?”

“A figure of speech, Ambassador. No more than that. I meant only—”

“The name of this beast, Venturo.”

“As I say, I have yet to discover it. …”

“Ears pricked, he says, Antonio.”

“I tell you both, I have yet to discover it. I swear it, gentlemen!”

It seems that Antonio is about to set to work again when Don Jerònimo raises his hand and purses his lips. He weighs the matter up.

“Don Antonio, be so good, if you will, to send for Don Diego.”

“No!” shouts Venturo. Antonio makes for the door, already shouting the name, while Venturo tries to cling to his sleeve. “I tell you I know nothing!”

“Ears pricked indeed.” Don Jerònimo is shaking his head regretfully.

“Please, Don Jerònimo, I have told you all I know. I have kept good faith with you, have I not? Now I beg you to believe me. I beg you!”

Venturo squirms on his chair, his face radiating earnestness as he pleads with Don Jerònimo. His eyes keep darting over the silent man’s shoulder. Suddenly the door opens again. Antonio and Don Diego march in. Without seeming to break his stride, Don Diego smacks Venturo’s face, bangs his head on the table, then holds the head in place with one hand, fishing with the other for his knife. Venturo begins to sob, “I do not know, I do not
know
” over and over again.

“The name, Venturo?” asks Don Jerònimo, but this only prompts a series of high wails. “Very well. Don Diego? Venturo here has promised us his ears will henceforth be pricked in our cause, now—”

“No, no, no, no, noo-ooo! Pleeaassse … I do not know the name. I do not!”

Don Diego bends to his task, but before he has so much as scratched his man, Venturo starts to scream.

“Enough!” Don Jerònimo orders, then slumps back in his chair. “Thank you, Don Diego. That will suffice.”

Don Diego’s expression has not changed since the charade began. Now he merely nods, straightens, turns about. The soldier’s boots thud on the floorboards of the
sala
outside. Venturo snivels, still prostrate on the table. Antonio pulls him up and deposits him in his chair. A long minute passes while Don Jerònimo regards him thoughtfully.

“You bore it very well, Venturo,” he says finally. “Very bravely.” Venturo nods through his sniffles. “You must have something in your eye, I think. It is watering. Antonio? A handkerchief for Venturo here. His own is too grimy. … There now. Better?”

“He was to tell His Holiness of the new animal today,” Venturo says, wiping his face. “He was to sound him out on it, and then you were present, so I do not know if he did or no. That is the truth of it, and I know no more.”

“Naturally we believe you, Venturo. We would hardly put you through such an ordeal for nothing. You are one of our own. You will tell us when you know, will you not?” Venturo sniffs loudly and nods. “Good. Antonio will pay you. Now come here and kiss me.” Don Jerònimo smells the sourness of Venturo’s fear as their cheeks brush.

A minute later, Antonio has joined him on the loggia overlooking the courtyard.

“Do we believe him, Antonio?”

“He knew we dared not mark him so obviously, Excellency.”

“His terror was real enough. I fear that our Pope’s horn-sharpening lover of virgins and Faria’s mysterious animal are one and the same. In any case, it is the fact of this beast, not its name, which must concern us now. Faria will not keep his secret long. His genius is for advertisement, as I was taught again today. And His Holiness … He is clever to set Faria and myself against each other in this way. And yet he craves marvels and prodigies before allies and armies. I tell you, a dragon, a gryphon, and a centaur would secure Africk, the Indies, and the New World, all three. But who was it gave Cardinal Medici his beloved Florence? Does he forget so quickly?”

“Some say that it is not a happy memory,” offers Antonio.

“Oh, doubtless he would not wish to be reminded. Perhaps this explains his love of diversion, but he does not love me, Antonio. And he does not love our King.” He pauses; some impasse has been reached. “I do not understand him. I do not understand this Pope of ours.”

“He is simple as a woman,” Antonio tells his master. “It is his whims which make him complex.”

The courtyard below is silent. Its flagstones glare in the afternoon sunlight, dazzling both men. Don Jerònimo recalls the scene from that morning, the animal’s sheer bulk, something crude and unfinished about it. The Pope’s open delight, like a child. Perhaps because his smallest whims met no resistance, they grew out of all proportion; peas the size of pumpkins. Mice hungry as wolves. Perhaps
that was it. In the gardens of the Belvedere the Pope’s whims had no season, grew unchecked, became monsters. Simple as a woman. That was good. Don Jerònimo turns to his secretary.

“I have an appointment with my mistress, Antonio. I am to take her to Mass at the Colonnas. The feast of Saints Philip and James is said to be amusing, and I am in need of amusement.”

“Take Don Diego, Excellency.”

“Pay court to one’s mistress in the company of soldiers? Absurd! She understands one weapon only, and Don Diego does not wield it.”

“We are not much loved at present, Don Jerònimo. If you are caught alone, it would be an easy matter—”

“This is not Venice, Antonio. Faria would not dare. I shall go to her early, surprise her. Do you still have that minx up from the Ripa?”

Antonio nods. “A candle’s worth of whatever I please for a handful of soldi. I think she must be stupid.”

“I cannot say mine own is stupid. She has the reddest lips, the most golden hair, the tiniest feet, the readiest wit. She plays the lute, or so she says, sings verses. Only thinking of her stirs me up; I swear there is a part of me that loves the woman.” At this point Don Jerònimo pauses in his praises, as though unsure exactly how to proceed. Antonio turns to him expectantly. There is a further aspect to be mentioned, a most encompassing particular. But is he to celebrate it or decry it? In his contemplations, true, it is a part of her he has been repelled by. Yet in the flesh, in the closeness of her chamber, in the dark, in the hours when his hands are busy on her slopes and summits, two feverish explorers roped together in his head,
then
… Well, she is fat. The fact is inescapable and apparent at a glance. His mistress is very fat.

Antonio watches him as the morning past and evening to come conflate and merge. The animal’s bulk and his darling Fiametta’s, they—as it were—
correspond
. … Put a horn on her nose, sheathe her in gray, and …? No. He feels light and unguarded, his thoughts drifting like this under the secretary’s nose.
You are a traitorous knave, Antonio, and I will cut your throat
. Under his very nose. Horns and virgins. …

Pitched somewhere in the gulf between outrage and admiration, the expletive bursts from him, startling his secretary, awakening slumbering servants within, sending lizards basking in the heat below scrambling for the shadows of the arcade.

“Plinius!” blurts Don Jerònimo.

It appears suddenly, a cliff of travertine and tufa rising up and running the length of the Piazza di Santissimi Apostoli. Heavy iron grilles protect tiny ground-floor windows set within deep embrasures that seem to have been hollowed
from solid rock. Higher up are shutters and bars. An arched gateway barred by heavy oak doors battened with iron suggests repulse rather than entrance, and the adjoining church only heightens the impression. Ramshackle parades of broken-down houses and stables face this architectural scowl across the piazza and seem to cower before its bulk. Louring over the antlike denizens below, Fortress Colonna appears as a single, enormous, impregnable block of stone.

Within, the story changes somewhat. Down the years, successive headstrong Colonnas have indulged their passion for towers, mezzanines, balconies, walkways, little blockhouses; staircases have been confidently projected through curtain walls to join bedchambers and reception rooms, grand halls envisaged by knocking out a scullery and two kitchens. Great confidence attends the workmen’s initial hammer-blows, but the business soon starts to go awry. Floor levels are found to differ by crucial inches. Walls that should be the same wall turn out to be quite different walls. Punching through
here
should lead to
there
. It doesn’t. Workmen poke dust-covered heads through holes to find themselves in little studies and servants’ dorters when they should be in cellars, or privies, or attics, anywhere but here. Elderly female second cousins have turned
en deshabillé
from their mirrors to find their quarters broken in upon by men swinging hammers. Denizens of the
tinello
have been startled in the midst of sordid solitary practices. It’s unsettling—for the engineers not least. Shouldn’t this unexpected
saletta
be on another floor entirely? Where did this dining room come from? Their tunneling has brought them out in rooms lost for generations by some intervening “improvement,” rooms that no one knew existed, impossible rooms.

Ceiling collapses are frequent. There are rumors of doors that open on nothing more substantial than the open sky and a drop of fifty feet. Passages take devious, compromised routes on their way to nowhere in particular. Behind its massive facade, Fortress Colonna is riddled with these inexplicable gaps. Dotted throughout the sprawling shambles are useless wedge-shaped spaces, irregular chimneys of stale air, inaccessible “courtyards,” fissures, scissures, hiccups in the ground plan. A watercourse that no one has ever managed to find erupts periodically to turn these secret gardens swampy. Overlooking windows disgorge chamber pots and soiled rushes, dog bones and dogshit, animal guts and vegetable peelings. Fortress Colonna abounds in malodorous defaults: accidental gaps and wells where walls peel away from one another or meet at irreconcilable angles, leaving scum-filled defiles and pestilential sumps. In winter, men (small boys for the narrowest) are lowered in with buckets to clear the worst of the muck. In summer, they stink just the same.