There, upon the brick floor, Donno Valerio died. Ludovico covered the body with a blanket. He asked the boys to hide the body in a boat and bring it the following day to the Dominie’s house. Lodovico went to the Campo Santa Margherita that same afternoon. He found a black shelclass="underline" the house burned, the documents burned. He made his way inside to the locked door. The mastiffs Biondino, Preziosa, and Pocogarbato were huddled there. He called them by name. They recognized him. He unlocked the chains with the Maestro’s keys. He penetrated the passageways of the rats and lizards. He reached the marble chamber. He touched the invisible door and it swung open. He entered the narrow space of the stage. Darkness reigned. He pulled a cord. A brilliant light illuminated the figure of the three Gorgons with the single eye beneath the sign of Apollo. He pressed three buttons. On the screens and railings were projected three figures: his three sons. On the gradin of Venus, on the railing of love, the first son was a statue of stone. On the gradin of Saturn, on the railing of the Cave, the second son lay dead, his arms crossed upon his breast. On the gradin of Mars, on the railing of Prometheus, the third, writhing, was bound to a rock, pecked by a falcon that was not devouring his liver but mutilating his arm.
As he turned to leave, Ludovico found himself face to face with his three sons. He whirled toward the auditorium of the theater; the shadows of his sons had disappeared. He looked back at the three boys. Had they seen what he had seen?
“We had to flee with the body of the Maestro,” said the first.
“The Magistrati alla Bestemmia came in search of the fugitive,” said the second.
“They threatened us; they know your connection with Valerio, Father,” said the third.
They left the theater; they retraced their lost steps. Ludovico again chained and locked the door; from a burned-out window he threw the keys into the River of San Barnaba. They recovered the body of Valerio Camillo from the boat and carried it to the garden. Ludovico collected the mastiffs. They removed the clothing from the corpse. They laid it in the garden. More than ever, in death the Dominie, with his sharp profile and waxen flesh, resembled a frail young cardinal. Ludovico loosed the dogs. The bells chimed in the tall campanile of Santa Maria del Carmine.
Valerio Camillo had found his tomb.
THE DREAMERS AND THE BLIND MAN
“They will search for him throughout the city. They will search for us at our house. It would be best to spend the night here,” Ludovico said to the boys. “No one will think to look for us in the most obvious place.”
As always, the three boys listened attentively to Ludovico, and lay down beside the padlocked door to sleep. The former student who had one day challenged the Augustinian theologian in the university and had another day escaped across the rooftops of Teruel from the wrath of the Aragonese Inquisition, marveled once again: the boys were almost fifteen years old and they were still absolutely identical. Actually, instead of accentuating their individuality, time had underlined their similarities. He no longer knew which was which: one, abducted one night from the castle of the Señor called the Fair, was the son of unknown parents; a second, true, he was the son of Celestina, but by an unknown father: that same Señor who while Felipe watched had taken her by force on the night of her wedding in the grange? the three hurried old men who had raped her in the forest? Prince Felipe? Ludovico himself? they who had each pleasured themselves with Celestina in the bedchamber of the bloody castle, occasionally both enjoying her at the same time; and the third — yes, this one was certain, but the most fantastic — was the son of a she-wolf and the dead Señor; that news Celestina had sent upon the lips of Simón; but the girl was half mad and her word was not to be trusted.
He looked at them that night as they lay sleeping. Better they not know. He knew (he remembered; he imagined): when he was twenty, one of the boys, the one abducted from the seignorial castle, would have the face of the cavalier dead in the back-alley duel and mourned in the temple of the Christ of the Light. His name was Don Juan. But although the three are identical today, will they be so in the future? And as they are identical, will all three have the face Don Juan acquired in death? Better they not know; enough. They are all my sons; enough. They are brothers; enough.
Moved by a torrent of love for the three creatures abandoned to his care, he longed to awaken them, to know they were alive and happy and loving.
He sought some pretext for expressing this overwhelming tide of love. Some news that would justify awakening them from their deep sleep — he spoke, he called them, he touched one’s head, shook another’s shoulder — yes, this news: the time was approaching, it was five years still before the appointed meeting — he lighted a candle, held it to their sleeping faces — but they would return to Spain, the meeting was to be in Spain, and there they would prepare themselves …
Only the third boy awakened. The other two continued to sleep. The one who awakened said to Ludovico: “No, Father, leave them alone; they are dreaming of me …
“I have news for them…”
“Yes, we already know. We are going to make a voyage. Again.”
“Yes, to Spain…”
“Not yet.”
“We must.”
“I know. We shall go together, but we shall be separated.”
“I do not understand, my son. What secret is this? You have never done anything behind my back.”
“We have always accompanied you. Now you must accompany us.”
“We shall go to Spain.”
“We shall reach Spain, Father. But it will be a long voyage. We shall take many turnings.”
“Explain yourself. What is the secret? You have…”
“No, Father. We have made no pacts. I swear it.”
“Then…?”
“They are dreaming about me. I shall do what they dream I am doing.”
“They have told you that?”
“I know. If they awaken, if they cease to dream of me, Father, I shall die.”
“Which one are you, for God’s sake, which of the three…?”
“I do not understand. We are three.”
“What do you know? Have you read the papers inside those bottles?”
The boy nodded, his head lowered.
“You could not resist the temptation?”
“Not we. You must resist it. We have sealed them again. They are not for you…”
“That damned gypsy, that temptress…”
The boy again nodded; Ludovico felt they had not fled from Venice in time, that the city had imprisoned them within its own spectral dream, that the destiny Ludovico shared with the three boys was splitting into four different paths. For the first time, he raised his voice: “Hear me; I am your father … Without me, the three of you would have died of hunger, or been murdered, or devoured by beasts…”
“You are not our father.”
“You are brothers.”
“That is true. And we venerate you as a father. You gave us your destiny for a time. Now we shall give you ours. Accompany us.”
“What enchantment is this? How long will it last?”
“Each one of us will be dreamed thirty-three and a half days by the other two.”
“Why that cipher?”
“It is the cipher of dispersion, Father. The sacred number of Christ’s years upon the earth. The limit.”
“Thirty-three, twenty-two, eleven … Distant from unity, the numbers of Satan, the learned doctor of the Synagogue of the Passing told me…”