Veritas (Atto Melani) (35 page)

Despite his subdued air, I thought, this Penicek clearly knew his way around.

“Simonis,” I asked my assistant, “you came into my service to earn some money, while Penicek is a coach driver. But I imagine Danilovitsch, as a count, is kept in his studies
by his family.”

“Yes, he’s a count, he belongs to one of the most illustrious families of Pontevedro – which, unfortunately, is a little state that’s totally bankrupt. To restore his
nation’s credit Dànilo did try his luck with some rich widows in these parts, but it all came to nothing.”

“Too bigoted!” Penicek shook his head, holding the horse’s reins. “He should have tried in Paris: plenty of merry widows there . . .”

“Unfortunately with this wretched war he couldn’t,” the Greek explained. “And so now to make ends meet he’s forced to carry out a rather dishonourable trade:
spying.”

I gave a start: after Atto Melani, another secret agent?

“Not in the sense you fear,” Simonis added at once. “He’s a legal spy, an authorised one.”

He explained that the previous Emperor, Leopold, Joseph I’s father, had been a pious, modest, upright and moderate spirit. He had shunned all excesses and cultivated prudence, patience and
parsimony. And since Austria, as I well knew, was kissed by the Goddess of Opulence and even the lowest subjects could live like kings, in order that noblemen should not be confused with labourers,
princes with woodcutters, ladies with servant girls, Leopold had divided society into five classes: he set down rules on the luxuries that each class was permitted to have. Only noblemen and
cavaliers were exempt from these rules, holding special privileges.

“Yes, I’ve heard of these five classes,” I objected, “but ever since I’ve been here no one has ever asked which one I belong to.”

“Perhaps it’s because you’re a foreigner, and no one has thought of checking up on you. But for the Viennese it’s a very serious question.”

For each class there were detailed rules setting out just how much they were allowed to spend on clothing, eating, public appearances, marrying and even dying.

“I don’t understand: who makes sure that all these rules are respected?” I asked.

“That’s obvious: the inhabitants of Vienna themselves. And the students above all.”

Leopold had instituted a kind of vice squad: a body of spies who infiltrated weddings, parties and even private homes to check that no citizen violated the law. Dànilo Danilovitsch was
one of these.

“Students, who are always short of money and have quick minds, are among the best spies,” remarked Simonis.

Authorised spies had a right to a third of the fines levied on transgressors, and so it was to be expected that they would carry out their duties diligently. However, it was not always easy; how
could they know, for example, whether a dress cost thirty, fifty or two hundred florins? And so tailors, furriers and embroiderers were hired as well, and they were expected to denounce (under the
threat of being punished themselves) clients who ordered clothes not permitted to their respective class. In the same way, legions of cooks and larder servants (known as “pan-peepers”)
were enrolled to denounce their gluttonous masters. Carpenters reported orders of luxury items of furniture, cloth merchants those of sumptuous textiles, painters blew the whistle on clients who
asked for oversized portraits. Excessive opulence in carriages was denounced by coach drivers and postilions, and so on.

It got to the point that there was no corner in Vienna without a lurking spy, staring at people as they passed and at their boots (were the heels too high?), their faces (French face powder?) or
the ladies’ false moles (too numerous on the left cheek?). The result of this proliferation of spies was that suspicion reigned in the kitchens, people looked daggers at one another in
tailors’ shops, and in carriages the travellers eyed the attendants as if expecting a stab in the back. Those who were spied on (who obviously took their revenge by spying on others in turn)
had to lock their larders to hide an extra piglet, or their cellars to conceal their padded armchairs, or they had to bury their youngest daughter’s gold ring in the garden. Besides, who
could possibly remember all the prohibitions? On feast days jewels and coiffures were not supposed to cost more than six hundred florins for the first class, three hundred for the second, from
twenty to thirty for the third, from fifteen to twenty for the fourth and four kreutzer for the fifth. A wretched, illiterate fieldworker of the fifth class had to be careful not to own towels
costing over a florin and thirty kreutzer, scarves and hats over a florin, and not to order meals or banquets for over fifteen florins, or five florins if for children, and woe to anyone who
overspent by a single cent. You practically had to live with your nose buried in a notebook full of figures, only raising your eyes to check if your neighbour had broken some rule so that you could
denounce him.

Life had become hell, which was certainly not what Leopold had wanted for his subjects. But above all, the Viennese, who have a natural sagacity and like to live peacefully, had realised that
what they could get from spying on people was worth much less than the freedom they had lost. All the more so, since noblemen, ministers and high prelates, exempt from Leopold’s prohibitions,
continued to stuff themselves, to throw parties and to dress up just as they liked. Indeed, it was fashionable to be round-bellied (a mark of prestige and wealth); topped by the tall curly wigs
then in vogue, these bellies gave the ruling class an unmistakeable pear shape.

“So how do you explain,” I objected, “that in the peasants’ homes in the suburbs, where you and I go to clean their chimneys, we see cutlery in carved ivory, magnificent
ceramic plates, curtains and tablecloths with wonderful lacework, ornamented glasses, luxurious armchairs and stoves decorated with refined craftsmanship? You’ve seen it all yourself: even
the country cottages always have full larders, and the smells that come from the oven make you faint with hunger.”

“Things have greatly improved,” said Simonis.

Tired of all this spying, he explained, the Viennese had begun to turn a blind eye on their neighbours’ offences. Leopold, who had issued the first decree in 1659, had had to repeat it in
1671, in 1686, in 1687 and twice more, because his citizens by now turned a deaf ear, and smart people had found ways to get round the rules by circulating luxury goods under the names of more
modest articles.

“So you’ll easily understand, Signor Master, that when the old Emperor Leopold died, after reigning for fifty years, the Viennese heaved a great sigh of relief. And spies like
Dànilo began to earn a little less than before, because things had become more tolerant, especially with Joseph who is the exact opposite of his father – he loves luxury, beauty and
splendour.”

“How do you know that Dànilo is a spy? Isn’t it supposed to be a secret trade?”

“Signor Master, nothing escapes the trained eye of a student. And we’re his companions: there are too many of us for him to get away with anything under our noses.”

“It’s certainly not an activity that confers any honour on a student, that of Dànilo Danilovitsch; particularly on a count, even if he is as poor as a church mouse,” I
remarked sceptically.

“But Dànilo is a Pontevedrin count, Signor Master, and Pontevedro is in half-Asia, you remember?” he answered with a sly smile. “Just like this donkey, my Pennal.
Isn’t it true, Penicek, that you’re a half-Asiatic beast? Nod, Pennal!”

Poor Penicek turned and nodded towards us.

“More, Pennal! And look happy!” the Greek rebuked him.

Penicek obeyed and began to jerk his head affirmatively, smiling idiotically the while.

“Yes, Simonis, I remember that you referred briefly to Half-Asia during the Deposition,” I said, watching this performance rather uneasily, but not wanting to interfere as it was a
student matter. “You said that the lands on the borders of Asia, like Pontevedro, are very different from ours, I think.”

“In them European culture meets with Asiatic barbarism,” answered Simonis, turning serious, “Western ambition with Eastern indolence, European humaneness with the wild and
cruel conflict between nations and religions. Signor Master: to you or me, who are Europeans, it would sound not only alien, but unheard of and incredible. With those people you can never trust in
appearances. But now we must break off, Signor Master: we’re here.”

We got down from Penicek’s cart and made our way up a stone staircase. It led up to a large open area at the top of the city walls, looking over the Glacis, the open plain that surrounds
the city and separates it from the suburb of the Josephina.

“We’ve often met here, Dànilo’s companions, and . . . strange, I can’t see him.” Simonis looked in all directions. “He’s usually very punctual.
Wait, I’ll go and look for him.”

Dànilo Danilovitsch had chosen for the meeting place a secluded spot on the city ramparts. The fortified walls were almost entirely accessible; unfortunately they were notorious for the
shady dealings that took place there at night. The soldiers of the city’s garrison took advantage of the darkness for secret wine trading, and also for encounters with the numerous young
women of loose morals who traded their own bodies on the ramparts. But that evening was so cold, with a freezing wind mercilessly lashing the ramparts, that no soldiers or prostitutes were to be
seen.

Simonis had been away for a good quarter of an hour now. What the devil had happened? I was about to go and look for him when I saw his shadowy figure emerging from the darkness.

“Signor Master! Signor Master, run, quickly!” he whispered in a choked voice.

I ran with my assistant to the terrace of a nearby rampart, where a vague dark shape was stretched on the ground.

“Oh my God,” I moaned when I recognised the shape as a human body, and its face as that of a large, bulky youth: Dànilo Danilovitsch.

“What’s happened to him?” I asked, panting from the shock and the fear of being involved in a murder.

“They’ve stabbed him, Signor Master, look here,” he said, opening the greatcoat. “It’s soaked in blood. They must have stabbed him at least twenty times.”

“Oh my God, we must get him away from . . . What are you doing?”

I stopped. Simonis had pulled a little flask containing liquid from his pocket and was holding it under Dànilo’s nose.

“I’m seeing if he sneezes. It’s rue juice: if he sneezes, the wounds aren’t fatal; if he doesn’t react, it means there’s nothing we can do.”

Unfortunately the young Pontevedrin did not move.

“My God . . .” I moaned.

“Shhh!” the Greek silenced me.

Dànilo was saying something. It was a weak gasp, and as the breath left his mouth, turning into vapour in the cold air, it looked as if his soul were deserting him.

“Zivio . . . Zivio . . .” he muttered.

“It’s a Pontevedrin greeting,” explained Simonis. “He’s raving.”

“The Apple, the Golden Apple . . . the forty thousand of Kasim . . .” the student added.

“Who stabbed you, Dànilo?” I asked.

“Let him talk, Signor Master,” Simonis interrupted me again.

“. . . the cry of the forty thousand martyrs . . .” he went on raving.

Simonis and I looked at each other in desperation. It seemed that Dànilo had just a few moments of life left.

“The Apple . . . Simonis, the Golden Apple . . . of Vienna and the Pope . . . We’ll meet again at the Golden Apple . . .”

It sounded like a farewell.

It was the Greek who then urged the dying man:

“Dànilo, listen! Resist, curse it! Who did you talk to about the Golden Apple? And who are the forty thousand of Kasim?”

He did not answer. Suddenly his breathing grew faster:

“The cry . . . of the forty thousand, every Friday . . . The Golden Apple in Constantinople . . . in Vienna . . . in Rome . . . Eyyub found it.”

Then his breath was cut short, he stretched his neck upwards and opened his eyes as if a celestial vision had appeared to him in mid-air. Finally he had a spasm, and his head, which we were
holding up more out of pity than for any useful purpose, fell back. Simonis compassionately lowered his eyelids.

“Oh my God,” I moaned, “how are we going to carry him away?”

“We’ll leave him here, Signor Master. If we carry him away the guards will stop us and we’ll get into real trouble,” said Simonis, standing up.

“But we can’t, he must be buried . . .” I protested, thoroughly shaken.

“The garrison will see to it tomorrow, Signor Master. Students drink a lot at night, they challenge one another to duels. In the morning they often find corpses,” said Simonis,
tugging me by the lapel, while the wind grew stronger on the bastions and almost howled in our ears.

“But his relatives . . .”

“He didn’t have anyone, Signor Master. Dànilo is dead, and no one can do anything right now,” said Simonis, dragging me down the staircase that led away from the
bastions, while what had seemed mere wind became a tempest, and on Vienna, unexpectedly, there began to descend, merciful and gentle, the white benediction of snow.

Day the Fourth
S
UNDAY
, 12 A
PRIL
1711