A Dancer in Darkness (6 page)

It was not difficult for him to find his way. The palaces in this section of Rome had been run up by a builder thirty years before, on speculation, and were almost identical. They were grandiose, but small.

There was nobody to announce him, not so much because he was unexpected, as because nobody was expected. He slipped into a long gallery and found Ferdinand pacing up and down the length of it, while torches fixed on the walls gave a
flickering
, uncertain light that turned the marble floor into a swamp of shadows.

“Who’s there?” called Ferdinand, and his voice reverberated against the walls. He came swiftly down the room and peered at Bosola.

Bosola handed him the letter and explained his errand.

Ferdinand looked at the seal, slit it open, and then grabbed one of the torches from its socket and held it above Bosola. He began to chuckle.

“Yes, you’ll do,” laughed Ferdinand. “By God, you’ll do.” Instead of putting the torch back in its socket, he flung it on the floor, so that the sparks danced like a cloud of midges.

Bosola relaxed. He had not been recognized, for, like an animal, Ferdinand had little memory. He had only desires. The man was shaking with some sort of passion Bosola did not understand, and his voice was husky with rage.

“My sister would disgrace us all. She would disgrace me,” he said. “She is a widow. She is a girl. Find out who she sees, and what she does. I would not have her marry anyone. Women are venal, lubricious, cunning without wit, and spiteful
as foxes. Let her do what she will, but marry she shall not.” Ferdinand rubbed his face with his hands. “Let her do nothing. Why should she lie under some boatman or stable-boy? My brother is foolish. He throws temptation in her way. Insinuate yourself with that white-faced fool. Do you think I do not know why she wants him there, or why my brother has sent him there?”

He stood stock still in the middle of the gallery, in the one dark patch the torches did not light, and it was as though he stood at the bottom of a well.

“She shall not,” he said tautly. “She shall not, shall not. Do you think I have no thoughts? Men think I have no thoughts. My brother thinks I have no thoughts. Why otherwise would I walk here all night long? I do not sleep.”

Out of Ferdinand’s face there again peered that young, adolescent face that had never gotten its own way, so that, even though he was dangerous, there was something
vulnerable
and touching about him too.

“Go, tell my brother everything I say. She shall not drag me through that filth. She shall not marry.” Ferdinand threw a bag at Bosola. “Go, and destroy her. For that is what you are paid to do. And that is what I pay you to do, for that is what life is.”

Bosola stooped to pick the money up.

“Take it,” cried Ferdinand. “Don’t you think I know as well as he, that the truth has to be doubly paid for?” Abruptly he strode to the far end of the gallery and stood there, facing the room, his face hidden in shadows, and the hall was quiet.

Bosola hesitated. The bag lay at his feet, with a long shadow behind it, cast by the torch on the wall.

“Go!” shouted Ferdinand, and he sounded frightened. “Go!”

Bosola retrieved the bag and went.

*

It was late, and he was very sleepy, but apparently the Cardinal never slept. There was a couch in the little room he used as an oratory, where he took naps, and that was all the attention he had the time to pay to sleep. Bosola told him what had happened.

The Cardinal listened as would a doctor to the symptoms of a patient he has no time to attend.

“In particular you will attach yourself to Antonio,” he said. He picked up a letter from his desk. “You will leave now. That will get you to Naples by tomorrow dusk. There you will deliver this letter for me.” He paused. “It is to your sister.” Bosola started and the Cardinal smiled. “Are you fond of your sister?”

“She is an admirable woman.”

The Cardinal shrugged. “No doubt. But since she did not tell me she had a brother, I presume she did not wish the fact known. But, as you see, I know it.”

He held out the letter, and Bosola knew that it contained nothing. It was merely a pretext.

“That is all,” said the Cardinal sharply.

So Bosola departed.

Late the next afternoon he reached Naples, and for once even Naples was overcast and dull. At dusk he went to the convent. Hate her he might, but he did not want to see his sister trapped. One of them, at least, should be set free.

Sor Juana was the greatest female poet of her age. But in all her life she wrote only one poem because she could not help it. Like everything else she did, that poem was bland, twisted, sombre, brilliant, and yet deceptively easy. It was also
knowledgeable
, for knowledge was her passion, not poetry, not people, not God.

It was on the night Bosola came to visit her that she began that poem. She wrote it to dazzle. Instead it began to dazzle her. It was called
The
Dream.
And because it did dazzle her, it lit up corners of her Self she had not wished to see: for it is true: the dream of reason produces monsters: and monsters are only what we cannot be, but others can.

As all such things do, the poem came quietly into her head, sat down, and then clamoured to be let out.

On an impulse she could not explain, but one that had
sadness
in it, she had gone to the nursery to see the child which the
Cardinal had left in her care. Though by now she knew
perfectly
well who that child was, she refused to admit that she knew.

She found the child sleeping in its cradle, under a muslin canopy, and looking around her to see that she was not observed, she parted the flimsy cloth and then looked down.

She knew nothing about children except that, once, she could not remember what it had been like, she had been one. The more profoundly we experience the world, the more we are shut off from the general experience of it. Always, when we think we have mastered it utterly, we find that the mind has a false bottom, which suddenly gives way like a trap-door and drops us down into the basement of the soul. And very strange things are stored there. It is the lumber room of faith. It
contains
, among other things, the earlier models of the gods upstairs.

She had never wanted, and she would never have, a child. But she regretted any incapacity, and this child was doomed. Like a puppy wagging the tail that is soon to be docked, it had the pathos of confidence, and how gently it lay sleeping, and how beautiful it was.

What owl?

It was in the nursery that Bosola found her, for he had the talents of a good spy: he knew his way into closed rooms. He knew how to find out what had not happened yet.

He caught a peculiar look on her face. It seemed quite genuine. As she bent over the cradle, the immense medal of St. Michel she wore by a chain round her neck dangled down and caught the light. He could see from the glance she gave him that she was furious to be caught in such a mood.

“I have brought you a letter,” he said.

He handed it to her, and when she saw the seal, her long jointed fingers ran over it like a crab, reaching for its weakest spot and tearing it open.

“But it says nothing,” she said, with a frown.

“What did you expect it to say?”

She looked down at the child in its cradle, pink and
defenceless
. She did not answer. She folded her hands.

“Then the Cardinal knows who you are.” She sighed. “You should never have gone back there.”

“Is that the child the Cardinal sent you?”

Her eyes widened.

“And do you know what will happen to him?”

“Nothing will happen to him.”

A sort of helpless fury came over him. Every time he came to her, she sent him away empty-handed. She had nothing to give anyone. Knowledge she might have, but understanding she had not. “The Cardinal has sent me off to be a common spy,” he told her.

“What else are you?”

He flinched. “The child is Raimondo Piccolomini,” he said.

She looked swiftly round the room. “Hush,” she said, and with that one word, he saw she was as venal as all of them.

He grabbed her arm. “Come,” he said.

She tried to shake him off.

“No,” he said. “Come.” He dragged her out of the nursery and into the corridor. He hurried along swiftly, sure of where he was going, and pulling her after him, her long robes
sweeping
across the floor like surf. The corridor was lit only by moonlight coming through the unglazed arcades. He made for a bolted door at the far end, and threw back its bolts.

“No, you cannot go in there,” she said. “No one goes in there.” She shrank back.

“We live there every day,” he told her, and pushed her
through the door so roughly that she stumbled. They were in a dark stone room, damp and unwholesome. Beyond that, down two stairs, lay a larger room, lit by moonlight.

What light there was came from windows set high in the wall in the groins of the arches. The stench was unbearable. There was no sound but snoring and the moaning of a man chained to the wall, with a crown of feathers on his head.

The others there lay sleeping, piled against each other for warmth. Many were naked, their flesh slippery with sweat. Most were men. A few were women. One or two were children. And though some had returned to the egg, and had lain curled up for so long that no physical strength could uncurl them, others clutched stray objects, one a wooden stick held like a sceptre, another with a medal on his chest that slipped and slid in lousy hair, but came from Compostella or Loreto. Bosola strode to the middle of the room and stamped on the floor heavily in his boots.

“Wake up,” he shouted. “Wake up all of you.” He seized the sceptre and beat the rump of the man who had clutched it. “Wake up!” Again he stamped, his heels rattling rapidly, like the warning of a snake unwillingly driven to violence by danger.

They woke. But they did not wake as ordinary people do. They woke slowly, and as they waked, began to repeat the only thing they any longer wanted to do, one standing on one leg like a chicken, the one with the medal gravely parading up and down, like a Prelate; and the man chained to the wall took off his crown and then, raising his arms, again placed it reverently on his own head. But most made the sounds of men chewing oatmeal, and these were the syphilitics.

It was the madhouse attached to the convent.

“There,” shouted Bosola. “That is what your world is. That is what your goodness is. That is what the goodness of your Cardinal is. This is the court you shone at. This is the court where you want to shine. This is your Vatican, your convent, your kindness, and your faith.”

He grabbed Sor Juana by the arms. “This is what you want to be. And this is the world where you want to be it. This is the secret you want to keep. Do you really think that because you change your shift once a day, you are sane?”

It seemed to him that in these faces he saw Ferdinand, Antonio, the Cardinal, himself.

“Do you think that because you are saved, you can damn me, or that boy, or anyone? You are not saved. Only the damned are saved. Only the damned know what salvation is.”

“Why do you stare?” he demanded. “Why do you not write your silly poems here?”

But he had misjudged her. She was not proud of her own sanity. She was only proud of not going mad.

“Perhaps I shall,” she said.

She felt sorry for him. For events are inexorable. They take place whether we participate in them or not, and that her brother had yet to learn. An hour later and he was on the Amalfi road.

Of all the separate small countries of Italy, Amalfi was one of the smallest and most distinct. Had it anything to defend, it would have been impregnable.

There was no denying that it was a peculiar place. It had the furtive defiance of one of those pirate towns built in Tripoli or the islands of the Caribbean. And now that its maritime power was lost, Amalfi was stranded, as though the tide had washed it up against its own cliffs.

The night there was peculiar, too, for it did not have the insect stillness of ordinary night. It was a night haunted by cloth. At sunset the clouds piled up on the horizon in bolts of shot silk, that rippled away like lizards, bruised and turning purple or green as they fled down into the crannies of the dark. Amalfi had no ease.

Yet for once the Duchess did not see it that way. She was as excited as a girl, for now her husband was dead, she was
learning
how to laugh. That was very sweet. It was almost like having a friend.

The Duchess was not clever, but she did have a good memory, which often serves us just as well. She knew what her brothers were like and she knew what they were capable of doing. She had come back to Amalfi as a woman comes back to an empty house. She did not even have her son to stand between her and the people. So she shrank into herself and avoided everyone, keeping only Cariola by her.

Piccolomini had been in his dotage. For the last two years it was she who had ruled behind him. Now he was gone, she stepped forward and ruled for herself. It was an unusual occupation for a pretty woman, but it was the only occupation she had. If she could not be loved, she could at least be just.

Very often, at dawn, even before Cariola had risen, she
would sit in a loggia at the top of the palace and gaze out over the sea and the green sky. That was the half-hour during the day when it was safe for her to dream, so she dreamt, though she did not quite know of what. Her brothers had her child in custody. She thought the Amalfitani would loathe her for that. She loathed herself for it. So she hid. The townspeople saw her only when she climbed the steep, broad stairs of the cathedral. Her honeyed little court, which she did not trust for a moment, saw her as little as she could make possible.

But then something unexpected happened. A deputation of guilds waited upon her, hats in hand, and asked her to shoot the Popinjay.

She was deeply touched. It was the first honest gesture of respect she had had from the Amalfitani. Her face lit up at once. She thought it was a tribute to her justice. It seemed spontaneous, and spontaneous gestures are rare.

She dismissed the deputation and fled off to tell Cariola. After all, Cariola was her only confidante.

Cariola thought it might be some kind of trap.

The Duchess spoke to her sharply. “Nonsense. Haven’t we had enough of traps? What shall I wear?”

This was a subject closer to Cariola’s heart. They discussed avidly what she should wear, and decided on a tight hunting dress of green velvet.

“Your stomach is so smooth. One would never guess you had had a child,” said Cariola.

When the deputation came to escort her to the gaming area, she met them with radiant smiles. It would be a long and fatiguing day, but she did not mind. She felt at last the world was opening up, and so she opened up to it.

And what was this Popinjay? All understood it, but few could say what it meant. It was a mystery, degraded to the status of a toy. But toys are mysteries to the children who use them. It is only their adults who have forgotten what they mean. So it does not matter what this popinjay was. The
ceremony
was as old as the death of winter and the birth of spring. If the year was to be full of life, then the popinjay must die. The meaning of it was as simple as that.

There was no level ground at Amalfi, except along the sea.
There, there was a broad esplanade, which might almost pass for a plaza.

The guildsmen conducted her forward through crowds lining each side of the way, and she was cheered. Thus they would have cheered the virgin come to trap the unicorn.

The popinjay was set up on a tall pole on the south side of the embarcadero. It was a roughly carved wooden bird, perhaps two feet across, with outspread wings, which seemed to soar on the apex of the pole. It was a blue parrot. Ceremoniously the Duchess was handed the bow. Archery she had practised as a child, with Ferdinand, until she began to best him. She felt confident.

The crowd was suddenly hushed. One of the syndics had the honour to present her with an arrow, on a small pillow made of plush. She smiled at him, for he seemed a little worried, fitted the arrow into its notch, and drew back the bow. There was no wind and the sun stood high.

It was a moment of supreme joy. She did not want to let the arrow go. She wanted to prolong the moment. But the crowd was waiting, and the weight of the drawn bow grew
uncomfortable
. With a sigh, she released it.

The arrow flew unerringly up to the top of the pole. As it did so, other arrows entered the air. She tried to follow her own, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her own had a golden vane. The vane glittered, and the popinjay exploded, its loose wings turning and pivoting, brilliant against the sky. The crowd sighed and then shouted with approval. Only then did she realize that she alone of that company had known she would hit the target. Now they all knew it. It was a genuine triumph. She looked up at the fragments tumbling through the sky and shook out her hair. In that moment they were truly her own people, and she was their Duchess.

All was safe now. The year was born. Behind her she felt the presence of Antonio, her household steward. She turned, and was startled by the immediacy of his face. She had received him when he had come to take up his duties, but her heart had not been open then. It was open now, and she saw him for the first time. And Antonio saw her. Something turned over in him that should have been sleeping. He turned and walked away.

Antonio took his duties seriously. As the fourth son of a noble family far from rich, he had had to use his wits. He had used them here. It had taken him a month to assure that the Duchess would be chosen to shoot the popinjay. It was he, too, who had arranged the Triumph that was to follow.

The occasion was the annual feast day of the local saint, but the purpose was to enhance the power of Amalfi. It was a piece of propaganda, much used in Florence and the north, but not so well exploited in the south. There would be a procession to the Cathedral. So now great cars were hidden in side alleys and, to tell the truth, the clergy were somewhat pushed aside, for in this sort of procession religion came last. If that was symbolic, no one noticed it, least of all the clergy. The parade would wind slowly in and out of the streets, to arrive at last at the Cathedral. It was there, facing a little uphill square from the top of the church stairs, that the Duchess and the Bishop took their station to watch the festivities.

The Duchess had never seen a Triumph before. She waited impatiently, while the Bishop talked. She was somewhat on edge. She knew for whom this ostentation was designed, and she had more reason to fear her brothers’ wrath than their timidity. But the day was a clear one and she was happy. She leaned forward at the first sound of music down the street, and the creaking of the triumphal cars excited her.

It was a diverse spectacle. It had an excitement the world has lost. For in those days people were not passive in their
amusements
. They did not watch a parade. They paraded themselves. And even those who watched it had sung and paraded once.

First came the lesser guildsmen, each led by a master,
carrying
banners and flags. They walked in silence. They were the overture. Next came the senior guilds, with drums, fifes, and even an angel to play the nun’s fiddle on an allegorical cart. And with these came the first floats, each representing the patron saint of its guild. The floats were high and wide, and moved with rheumatic dignity through the narrow streets. A St. Christopher eight feet tall, clad in yellow satin, held an Infant Jesus above the crowd. An allegorical car presented the
Temptation of St. Anthony, but all the pretty demons were so tickled by the vibration of the car that they could scarcely help but giggle. St. George pranced by on a white horse. Behind him a blonde peasant girl led the dragon by a silver string. It was a delightful dragon, puffing real fumes. There were many more. St. Michael in silver armour led the Devil in chains. He was a green and scaly devil, like something from the sea.

There was an interval, and next came a cavalcade of all the previous Dukes of Amalfi, including her late husband, and before them, the Doges of the Republic, smartly dressed, and surrounded by a flurry of standards, as though they were being hustled back into history.

The centre of the procession had been organized by the Jesuits, who alone had discovered how to make the Passion entertaining. In love, in our daily chores, in the mere act of peeling a peach, we re-enact a passion every day. The Jesuits made faith visible. They also made it fun.

Drawn by camels, came the cart of the Nativity. On the roof of its stable angels gloriously sang, as on the next car they fiddled the flight into Egypt through the streets. The order of the carts had become mixed. Here was the Annunciation, a scene of great splendour, and what was the Queen of Heaven if she was not earthly too?

The angel might have been a page in her employ. He was clearly of good family. And over her prayers floated a white dove with outstretched wings, joggling up and down on a silver wire.

Round these carts capered some players, tricked out as devils, with big faces painted on their behinds, so skilfully
contrived
that the eyes blinked on their buttocks, and their hairy tongues slid in and out.

Next came the floats dedicated to the triumph of the Duchess. These she watched like a child, but her life was not like this. She grew tense again. She had thought she was merely
watching
a procession. But this was not true. She realized now she had been waiting for one special car, and was glad that there was no one but the Bishop to see her face. She was a little scared.

For the last of the carts devoted to her own apotheosis had
been designed by Antonio. It was the cart of King Psapho. King Psapho was a legendary king so eager for fame that he taught parrots how to repeat his name, and then released them to the world. The legend had perhaps become a bit scrambled at the hands of the Court Poet who had suggested it; but the intention and the compliment were clear. The Duchess felt very pale and very weak.

The cart was square, surrounded on three sides by a simple balustrade. At the four corners stood slim youths dressed in Roman armour made out of feathers, with scarlet feather cloaks, each holding a forked religious banner, and with beaks for helmets and buskins of gold. In the centre of the cart stood an immense cage, surmounted by the popinjay. In the cage a bird man taught some parrots how to speak, and mimics made them seem to shout: Aemilia, Aemilia, as the cart passed by the Duchess.

At the rear of the cart was a throne, over which a negro held a scarlet parasol. On the throne sat Antonio, dressed as King Psapho. He wore a twirled silk turban surmounted by a crown, a thin ruff, a surplice coat embroidered with stars, and red stockings tight over his elegant calves. In one hand he held a baton of gold. The other rested on the arm of his throne. He was perspiring heavily, and his face was flushed, but he bowed and smiled to the crowd. His white face was full of joy, and as he passed the Duchess he raised his arm and saluted her.

She did not see the salute. She saw his eyes. And indeed the eyes of someone lovable are terrible. They are bottomless and beseeching, and full of the terror of not being loved. But their true terror is that they recognize a lover.

The cart moved on. Crowding behind it came a derisive forest of those megalocephalic giants which today survive in Valencia. Their shadows flowed over the passing figure of Antonio, and their empty eyes were knowing. The Duchess’s hand went to her throat and she moved uneasily. She wanted to flee. She thought she could do so, for we meet the inevitable person so seldom, that she still believed that love can be a matter of choice, as, indeed, for a little love, it can. But she was not precisely in love yet. She was only stunned by the sight of the future walking towards her.

Last came the religious procession, which peeled off from the rest and began to mount the Cathedral stairs. She looked down, and saw being borne up towards her the Byzantine reliquary of the local saint. It was a silver bust the colour of pewter, studded with yellow diamonds and amethysts. The head was harshly modelled. The eyes were of moonstone, as though clouded by a cataract. They stared sightlessly.

As the bearers negotiated the stairs, that face turned and glared down at her. She could have screamed. She fell
instinctively
on her knees. It was like a summons. Then the bust swept on into the sanctity of the church, and the crowd began to shout.

Her obeisance had pleased the Amalfitani very much. They could not know why she had kneeled down. She wanted to rush into the Cathedral and beseech that hideous and
inexorable
thing. She wanted to say, no, you are wrong. It will not end like that. You have no right to judge.

Unfortunately, we do not really make up our minds about anything. Our minds make us up. By the time we are aware of the necessity for decision, the decision has already been made. We can only follow willy-nilly. But in the meantime we are restless. We are ill at ease. We want to escape from something, we do not precisely know what. The Duchess felt that way, while Cariola was dressing her.

“Leave me. I want to pray,” said the Duchess.

Cariola was disturbed. “Madam should not kneel in that dress. She will ruin it. And she looks so beautiful.”

The Duchess looked in her mirror, but saw only the face of a young and wilful girl. She could not see herself at all, and something inside her truly turned to pray. “No, I am horrible. I am terrible,” she said. With a heavy rustle of jewelled taffeta, she went to her prie-dieu, and indeed the dress was so massive that it sucked her down on to her knees; and so unwieldy that Cariola lingered in the shadows, fussing at the dressing table, until the time should come to raise her up.