I saw him successfully gain height, like some new falcon, dipping and again rising, until he gave way at last to the caprices of the eddying winds and disappeared from view, a drop in the sea of lost desires.
I returned to the Villa Spada covered in sweat, worn out and embittered. I was to report at once to Abbot Melani with the bad news. He, however, had not yet returned. He must surely be resting, on the way back, from the exertions of the parrot hunt: an ordeal at his age, exacerbated by his painful arm. I decided that, rather than endure a discussion and Atto's complaints, it would be best to slip a note under the door of his apartment reporting on the negative outcome of the hunt. However, even before leaving him that message, I knew as soon as I set foot in the villa that the afternoon would be filled with chores, and yet more occasions for over-exertion.
The wedding festivities included a ludic entertainment: a great game of blind man's buff in the gardens of the villa. Eminences, princes, gentlemen and noble ladies were to challenge one another in joyous competition: hiding, following, finding and getting lost once more among the hedges and avenues of the park, vying for who was to show the greatest sagacity, speed and skill. The game could be played only in a place where vision, access and even hearing were obstructed, making for ease of concealment and difficulty in discovering those hiding: the magnificent gardens of Villa Spada, now rendered almost labyrinthine by decorations ephemeral and floral.
I was advised that my services would be required by Don Paschatio on this occasion, in view of a temporary shortage of staff. No fewer than four servants had deserted the Major-Domo, giving such more or less imaginative excuses as a fit of melancholy humour and the sudden death of a dear aunt.
The day had grown cloudy, the temperature had gone down a little and so the game was to begin not too late. I hastened to find some sustenance in the kitchens; it was by now time for luncheon and the hunt for Caesar Augustus had left me ravenous. I found some leftovers of turkey and toasted eggs, by now grown cold, but a delight both for my taste-buds and for my stomach.
I was still chewing on some little bones when one of Don Paschatio's assistants instructed me to don livery and report to the junction between the avenue alongside the secret garden and that which led through the vines down to the fountain. At that crossroads, a place of refreshment had been set up, with fresh waters, orange juice, lemonade, selections of fruit and vegetables, freshly cut bread and good preserves, all in the shade of a great pentagonal white and blue-striped pavilion, the pilasters of which were decorated with great wooden shields bearing the family arms of the spouses' families, the Rocci and the Spada. All this had been provided to slake the thirst of the players of blind man's buff, overheated by all that running around, but also for the sake of those taking no part in the game and preferring to stay idly stretched out on the great white canvas armchairs in the shade of the pavilion.
Making my way to my post, I could but admire once more the infinite caprices granted by the good architect of nature, of which, now that the work of gardening had been completed, I kept discovering new and admirable details. As in every garden all things must be pleasant, in the Villa Spada, every element had been bent to the pleasure of the eye and the intellect, starting with the order of woods and vegetation; for the art of building is a matter of more than the architecture of walls and roofs and comprises hedges, walks and avenues, meadows, porticoes, pergolas, palm trees, flower beds and kitchen gardens. The greatest villas possessed splendid tree-lined avenues, and it is true that we had none such. Therefore, to give a better tone to the walks, along the edges were aligned rows of noble box shrubs, privets and acanthus.
Barrel-vaulted pergolas gently introduced the shy, admiring visitor to the confluence between one avenue and another, or to crossroads under verdant bosky cupolas. Espaliered laurels were trained as canopies, symmetrically tonsured and seven or even fifteen feet high, vying with sheltering holm-oaks, myrtle bushes shaped like umbrellas or sugar loaves, as well as with complete ephemeral wooden buildings, all covered with a mantle of vegetation, and rows of columns in green with festoons and wreaths providing a frame for the orchestra. From a semicircular platform, a small ensemble of string players filled the air with a melodious counterpoint, a joyous game of hide-and-seek between trills and pizzicati that seemed to anticipate the game to which the guests had been invited.
Here, a few paces distant from the platform of the little orchestra, I had been detailed to serve, mixing orange juice and lemon, slicing bread, taking care of the armchairs and providing whatever else might please the excellencies and eminences present or passing by.
As soon as I arrived, I began boldly mixing juices and filling glasses, running from one guest to another like a bee buzzing from flower to flower in the morning.
Once I had done my duty waiting upon them, I placed myself at the gentlemen's service, standing beside one of the wooden pillars of the pavilion before which the other waiters stood like so many Lot's wives. Under the white and sky-blue wing of the great linen tent the guests stood and chattered, laughing and joking, or sat ensconced in armchairs. A few paces away from me, a few middle-aged monsignors calmed with lemonade tongues over-exercised with gossip.
It was at that moment that I realised I was in luck. Next to me stood the two monsignors whom I had, during the Academy, overheard discussing a certain plan to reform the corps of sergeants. From what I could gather, the discussion was continuing:
"… And so now, things should get a move on."
"But this idea is twenty years old, surely they do not intend to implement it now?"
"On the contrary, that does appear to be the case. I was told by my brother who is still an auditor of the Rota but is close to Cardinal Cenci."
"And what does Cenci know of it?"
"He knows, he knows. Here in Rome, at a certain level, the matter is common knowledge. It seems that the time is ripe; if the Pope lives a few more months, the reform will be carried through."
I listened to those two like Diana drawing her bow against a fleeing stag.
"But it is absolutely just that this should be done," continued the first speaker. "You and I, who are decent persons, have never seen the proud cohort of catchpolls entering a tavern or wine-shop at night, for at night we sleep and do not go out wine- bibbing in taverns. But everyone knows perfectly well what takes place. First the catchpolls get roaring drunk, befoul everything and create pandemonium, then off they go without so much as a goodnight. And if the innkeeper is so ill-advised as to ask to be paid, they spit in his face as though he had committed lese-majeste, treat him worse than some back-street assassin and the night afterwards they return to take their revenge. They arrange for some strumpet to enter the hostelry, or a pair of ruffian friends of theirs, and get them to play cards with unstamped playing cards. Then they enter, pretending to be there for a police check, find the cards, or the strumpet, and everyone is thrown into prison: the host, the waiters and anyone who happens to be in the tavern at the time, thus ruining the establishment and the innkeeper's family."
"I know, I know," replied the other, "these tricks are as old as the world."
"And do you think that a trivial matter?" insisted the first speaker. "It appears that the catchpolls exact a tithe, 'the gratuity', they call it, not only from all traders and hawkers but even from artists. What is more, they take a cut from all the harlots, and not only that. They rent rooms and sublet them to the same women of the town at a high price, so that they take money off them twice over. If the harlots refuse, they lose all their advantages."