We found Master Romauli leaning over a flower bed, wielding a pair of shears and a sprinkler. Upon seeing us, his face lit up. After the exchange of the usual pleasantries, it was Atto who came straight to the point.
"My young friend has informed me that you would be glad to pursue discussion of a certain matter," said Melani with calculated nonchalance. "But perhaps you may prefer the two of us to remain alone, and therefore…" he added, alluding to the possible desirability of sending me away.
"Oh no, not at all," replied the Master Florist, "for me 'tis as though my own son were listening. I beg of you, allow him to stay."
So Romauli had no hesitation whatever about discussing delicate matters, like that of the Tetrachion, in my presence. All the better, said I to myself; obviously, he felt so sure of his own arguments that he had no fear of the presence of witnesses.
Since the Master Florist had shown no sign of any intention to move from his working position and was still on his knees, in order to facilitate conversation, Atto too had to sit, choosing a little stone bench which was fortunately just in the right place. I looked around; no one was observing us or walking in the vicinity. The conditions were right for squeezing from Romauli all that he knew.
"Very well, honourable Master Florist," Atto began. "You must in the first place know that at this present moment, the fate of the Escorial is almost closer to my heart than that of Versailles, of which I have the honour to be a most faithful admirer. Precisely for that reason…"
"Oh, yes, yes, how right you are, Signor Abbot," broke in the other, working on a low rosebush. "Could you hold the shears for me one moment?"
Atto obeyed, not without a grimace of surprise and disappointment, while Romauli handled the stem of the plant bare-handed; then he resumed his speech.
"… Precisely for that reason, as I was saying," continued Melani, "I am sure that you too will be aware of the gravity of the moment and that it is therefore in the best interests of all… in this field, shall we say, to succeed in resolving this grave, nay this most grave crisis, as painlessly…"
"Here we are," the other interrupted him, placing in his hand a rose just cut from the bush, "I know what you want to get down to: the Tetrachion."
For a moment, the Abbot fell silent with astonishment.
"The Master Florist is most intuitive and a man of few words," Atto then said in amiable tones, yet looking swiftly all around to make sure that no one was watching us.
"Oh, it was so obvious," came the reply. "Our common friend told me that you wished to resume the matter upon which we touched in our first conversation, in which I referred to the Tetrachion and in which I also mentioned the Spanish jonquil and Catalan jasmine. And now you speak to me of the Escoriaclass="underline" one does not need to be a genius to understand what you are leading up to."
"Ah, yes, of course," Atto hesitated, somewhat troubled by the rapidity of the other's deductions. "Very well, this Tetrachion…"
"Let us proceed step by step, Signor Abbot, step by step," said the Master Florist, pointing at the rose which he had just placed in Atto's hand. Now, smell it!"
Somewhat taken aback, Atto twirled the rose a little in his hand; at length he raised it to his nose, breathing in deeply.
"But it smells of garlic!" he exclaimed with a grimace of disgust.
Tranquillo Romauli laughed delightedly.
"Well, you have just demonstrated that, as with the palate, so with the flower; if the smell is not good, every beauty is insipid and as though 'twere dead. Thus, giving a good odour to a flower that has none, or only a bad one, is as beneficial as the miracle of giving it life."
"That may be so; but to this… er, impertinent flower," objected Melani, dabbing his nostrils with a lace handkerchief, and again shivering with disgust, "death was given, not life."
"You are exaggerating," said the Master Florist amiably. "It is only a medicated flower."
"Meaning?"
"To treat flowers, one takes sheep's manure, which one then macerates in vinegar, adding musk reduced to powder, civet and ambergris, and in this one bathes the seeds for two or three days. The flower born of this process will smell of fresh and delicious aromas, those of musk and civet, which tone up and revive the nostrils of whosoever brings it to his nose."
"But this rose stank of garlic!"
"Of course. It was in fact medicated in another way, to make it resistant to parasites. For, as Didymus and Theophrastes teach, it suffices to plant garlic or onions close to any kind of ornamental flower, especially, close to roses, for the latter to be instantly impregnated with a garlicky stink."
"Disgusting," Atto muttered to himself. "However, what has that to do with the Tetrachion?"
"Wait, wait. By means of medication," continued Romauli, quite unperturbed, "one can completely remove the bad smell of flowers that are rather disagreeable to the nose, such as the
African marsh marigold or Indian carnation, whichever you prefer to call it. One need only macerate the seeds in rose water and dry them in the sun before sowing. Once the flower has been grown, one must take the seeds and repeat the operation, and so on."
"Ah, and how much time does it take to arrive at the result?" asked Atto, growing vaguely curious.
"Oh, a trifle. No more than three years."
"Ah yes, a trifle," replied Atto, without the other becoming in the least aware of his irony.
"And even less time is needed for these little ones," said Romauli, utterly unruffled, jumping lightly up and tiptoeing as he invited Melani to lean over and look into a damp, shady corner behind the bench, between the trunk of a palm and a little wall.
"But these flowers are… black!" exclaimed Atto.
He was right: the petals of a group of carnations, hidden in this little cranny (where I had often noticed the Master Florist busying himself of late) were as black as anything I had ever seen.
"I made them grow there so that they should not be overmuch in evidence, said Romauli.
"How did you do it?" I asked. "In nature, there are no black flowers."
"Oh, that is a bagatelle for one versed in the secrets of the art. You take the scaly fruit of the alder, which must first be dry on the tree, reduce it to a very fine powder, and incorporate it in a little sheep's manure, tempered with wine vinegar. You must add salt to correct the astringency of the vinegar and the whole thing will grow soft. Thereupon, you incorporate the roots of the young carnation, and there you have it."
Atto and I, although bored by the Master Florist's explanations, were both astounded by the amiable and ingenious perversion whereby he obtained floral miracles. Not even to me, his faithful helper, had he revealed the existence of the black carnations. Who knows, I wondered to myself, how many such prodigies he had sown in the flower beds of the Villa Spada. He did in fact confide to us that he had just planted an entire bed with lilies the petals of which were painted with the names of the spouses (SPADA and ROCCI) in letters golden and silver; another, with roses medicated with the rarest of oriental essences, and a third with tulips from bulbs soaked in colours (cerulean, saffron, carmine and suchlike), thus tinted with striations of myriad hues, almost as though a rainbow had come down to earth; yet another, with monstrous plants, born of heterogeneous seeds planted in the same ball of manure, as well as parsley with its leaves infolded in the form of cylinders, obtained by pounding the seeds in a mortar and squashing their meatus, and a thousand other wonders of his art.